


Bewitched

by panda_shi



Series: Oh Shit [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bonding, Depression, Disturbing Themes, Falling In Love, Forced Bonding, Graphic Description, Great Depression, Heartbreak, M/M, Magic, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Spider-Man: Homecoming Compliant, Past Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Spells & Enchantments, Tony Feels, Tony Is a Good Bro, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-18 14:54:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13102533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/panda_shi/pseuds/panda_shi
Summary: Tony doesn't think he'll ever want to be very comfortable with the team, even after Thanos. So when he ends up fighting an alien that can alter your body's chemistry, when Tony starts thinking that being around Barnes is the only thing that can make him feel safe -- well,fuck.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am my own Beta. I may have missed some typos and shit; this is an ever-green fic that I am continuously reviewing and editing out typos/mistakes/whatever.

Our lives are defined by opportunities, even the ones we miss.

Which is probably why Tony doesn’t think twice when he banks a sharp left into the scene of the battle, Ironman’s boots thunking and cracking asphalt from the force of the sudden landing, throwing himself between the oncoming blaze of white hot flames and giving it his back as he shields the fallen Winter Soldier from being turned to ash. All around him, the hud flashes red in warning and he roasts under the onslaught of heat, one arm braced up to protect his head as the rest of his body acts as a shield. He hears the desperate cry in his throat, a roar back against the flames that is pushing him down, down down, stabilizing thrusters firing up in retaliation so he remains in one spot, a solid and immovable wall.

Tony hears himself snap Bucky’s surname out, sharp and alarmed, the communication line buzzing with frenzy and hurried shouts from the rest of their teammates to gather in their position.

It takes perhaps five seconds more, and from the peripheral of hud, Tony sees Bucky scramble up to his feet, just in time to turn and catch the edge of Steve’s shield cutting through this air and flying his way. The metal arm and shield collide with a resonating clang and Tony feels himself go down one knee just as Bucky comes to stand in front of him, shield in place sending the fire back. The additional five second relief is enough for the suit to boot up cooling counter-measures, his hud going from the dangerous red to the flashing white of his target locking

Fire is hot.

But the power of his repulsors trumps fire.

Tony lifts both hands and aims at the alien creature ten feet away.

Tony _fires_.

And the shriek that cuts through Staten Island is loud and high pitched. The fire dies like a candle being snuffed out and all of sudden, the chaos one dimensional alien sorcerer had caused doesn’t seem to exist.

“Area cleared; approach with caution Ironman? Buck?” Steve’s voice calls out.

Tony turns to look at the Winter Soldier getting up from his position, soot and ash matting his face and hair, some parts of his gear burnt but otherwise looking unharmed. They lock gazes and nod at each other, a mutual thanks of sorts because that’s how they handle each other. Nothing but polite and acknowledging when absolutely necessary, even though they work seamlessly on the field and during training sessions.

The moment lasts a heartbeat, before Tony leaves the man he had practically just jumped and covered for to approach the hissing mess of an alien body ten feet away.

The alien is lying in a twisting and smoking heap, a large hole from where the repulsor ray had hit it on its chest still smoking and smelling like acid. It bleeds grey, its flesh a dark purple and its angry blazing blue eyes wild and panicked and desperate. Tony hears the grass behind him as Bucky comes to stand next to him, one hand slotting the magazine into his Sig Sauer and aiming the barrel of the gun towards the creature on the ground.

The alien gnarls its teeth, pointy shark like, the last of its hive that had ran a rampage all over New York from a dimensional crack. The aliens had run amok in either panic or blind rage, harming civilians the moment Strange and his team had managed to seal the portal back. And now here they are, about to put the last one down.

Except the creature spits something  out, alien language that means nothing but gnashing noise to them and its eyes begins to glow, the blues of it fading to white. Bucky doesn’t hesitate and puts a bullet between its eyes, just as an explosion of light engulfs them. For a moment, Tony feels himself suffocate within the confines of the suit, the energy feeling like a vacuum, trapping him and squeezing him into the small space. Tony doesn’t think twice and in a blind panic, his heart in his throat, the suit opens up and he spills out of it, falling in a heap onto the dead grass and sucking in sour lungful of air after the other. He feels himself being hauled off the ground, being dragged away and falling on his side. The panic doesn’t ebb away immediately either, but Tony finds himself staring at the hunched and sentient mode of his suit some few feet away, beside a pile of smoking and sour smelling body of the alien and the team running towards them from across the way.

“Hey, hey!” Bucky says, shaking him, looking wild and panicked too, chest heaving like he had suffered that horrible feeling of being compressed, of being pushed down, suffocating from within. “Stark! Can you hear me? You okay? Hey! Look at me!”

Tony feels his head turn from the mess of the alien body forcefully, gaze drinking in the panicked look of the Winter Soldier once more. There is a metal hand on his face, cool against the heated and clammy sweat gleaming on his skin, and down the side of his neck. Tony finds himself blinking slowly, eyes closing and subconsciously leaning against the cool metal, leaching comfort off it, drawn to the grounding feeling of Bucky keeping him steady.

The feeling of suffocating is something Tony would never wish upon anyone. Which is why, even in the Winter Soldier’s moment of weakness, he doesn’t jerk immediately when he feels Bucky’s forehead press against his, both of them breathing in sync under the quiet blanket of the fully destroyed road and greenery around them. They lean into each other without thinking, like opposite sides of a magnet sliding against each other and locking into one position.

It takes three heartbeats for Tony’s missed opportunity to make itself known, Steve’s knees hitting the ground beside them and pulling them apart. His palms are on them both, but only for a moment because they shift onto Tony’s shoulders, Steve’s attention fully on him, cowl back and concern lining his features. Tony jerks back immediately, as he always does every single time the Brooklyn Boys are too close for comfort, and like dominoes falling, Steve’s face closes off and crumples from within. Tony sees it and gives it his back, as he takes Rhodey’s offered arm and gets back on his feet.

“Tones?” Rhodey’s hud peels back, and just like that, the battle does not matter, the Brooklyn Boys don’t matter.

Because this goddamn mission had been categorized as a Category-1; when they had gotten the call and briefing, they had been told it would be a quick containment wrap up, easy as a pie.

“I’m good.” Tony nods, swallowing the desert in his throat and forcing his chest to behave, forcing that choking feeling down and shaking his head once to clear it. He spares Bucky a glance, who looks equally shaken but steady on his feet before purposely avoiding looking at Steve all together. Because that’s what he does after everything, after surviving a war, after surviving almost-extinction from a space tyrant, after trials and negotiations and contract signing for the Avengers to remain as Earth’s first line of defense against extraterrestrial beings. He doesn’t look at Steve because he’s afraid if he does, he’ll crumble, and they'd be drawn to each other like stars colliding. “What time is it?”

“Eight-fifteen.” Steve answers.

Rhodey’s metal hands come up to his face, balling into fist as a vicious curse rolls past his lips.

“We can make it.” Tony clears his throat. “We can make it, buddy. Come on, let’s go.”

“Tony! The mission isn’t over! And you need to report to medical! Where the hell are you going?” Steve says, calling after him as he crosses the distance back to his suit and steps into it.

“We need to go. We really need to go. Uh, can I get this as a favor? We need to be somewhere right now and frankly, this is a lot more important than,” Tony gestures to the smoking greenery around them. “This. Thanks, Cap! I’ll see you at the base and put in my report. Don’t wait up.”

“Tony, wait --”

The hud shuts and the boosters fire up as Tony and Rhodey blasts up towards the sky, curving and heading straight into Manhattan; the moment they had been called in for all hands on deck, Tony had told Happy to wait for them in the backdoor. Sure enough, the moment they land in the alley, Happy jerks up from the chair he must have dragged out to wait for them, bless his heart, and throws his hands up in the air, just as Ironman and War Machine open up and Tony and Rhodey steps out in their black flight suits.

“Hurry, hurry! Bathroom on the right!” Happy urges, handing one bundle to Rhodey and another to Tony.

“Thanks, Hap. Let her know we’re here.” Tony says, and Happy scampers off, not needing to be told twice.

They cram into the small space, pushing the taps open and taking turns to splash water on their faces and neck. They wash off sweat, ash and gunk to the best of their ability given the circumstances, stripping out of their flight suits and boots. There is a flurry and series of zippers being yanked open, and the clack and clip, swish and spritz of deodorant, aftershave and cologne, the swipe and pat of towels, and clank of belt buckles and shoes falling on tiles. In ten minutes, Tony is yanking up his denims over his hips, tucking his shirt in and running his fingers through his hair. Rhodey adjusts the collar of his shirt and slips on his jacket, folding the sleeves twice before he slips into his brogues and Tony into his  boots. They do not exchange words as they take one last look into the mirror and exit the bathroom just as Happy and Tony’s assistants steps in to clear the mess left behind.

And like they had just not fought off a screeching and psychotic bunch of aliens, Tony and Rhodey step into the room of polished wood, glowing candlelights, gleaming porcelain and crystal as all heads turn to their direction and Pepper stands from her seat, flushed and looking absolutely distressed.

“Ladies and gents, I have brought the groom!” Tony announces, arms spread and wrapping an arm around Rhodey.

There is an eruption of cheers, as they both make their way to their assigned seats of the rehearsal dinner that they are almost an hour late for. Rhodey wraps arms around Pepper, as he presses an apologetic kiss to her temple and calms her down, whispering apologies. Tony watches as Pepper rubs the curve of Rhodey’s shoulder and urges him to sit down and take a drink. This is where Tony finds himself wrapped in Pepper’s embrace, and this close, he can hear her sniff to clear her sinuses, no doubt from the emotional relief and to prevent any tears from ruining her make-up. Pepper is gorgeous in a dark blue cocktail dress and nude pumps, long hair arranged into a Gibson-Tuck and Tony is glad that at least they had managed to pull of a less than hour late arrival. He apologizes, and keeps on apologizing, until Pepper shakes her head and takes a step back to get a good look at him. Tony knows he looks about as okay as he can manage, presentable and put together. But there is concern in Pepper’s gaze, a pinch between her eyebrows, frown lining her pink lips.

“Tony, are you all right? Are you injured? You look -- “

“Famished.” Tony finishes off. “Got him here all presentable and okay, though, didn’t I? Whose the best man of the year?” Tony asks, and gives Pepper’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Come on.” He urges, canting his head to the side and accepting the glass of water Rhodey passes him, gulping it down to quench the horrid parched sensation in his throat.

Pepper is hesitant, but gives both of them a look before nodding and taking her seat.

The moment Tony’s ass hits the chair, he feels himself _melt_ into it, exhaustion seeping in along with relief. The table picks up conversation and there is discussion of the upcoming wedding in two weeks time. Tony smiles and laughs, throws jokes here and there, reminiscence with Rhodey about their days in MIT and exchange stories with Pepper’s family and close friends. It reaches a point where the conversation eventually slows and the focus is on the couple. Tony finds himself leaning a little further into the chair, gaze seeing past the gleam of the wine in his crystal glass; he finds himself thinking back to the events of the evening, mentally preparing himself to get that report out of the way.

What he finds himself thinking about instead is how that alien had exploded, how it had arched off the burnt ground, and gnarled at the sight of its killers and barrel of Bucky’s gun. Tony thinks to that moment, those two precious seconds, when the creature had exploded into a blinding light that had felt almost solid in its hit and outward expansion of force as bomb blast. Tony doesn’t think that he will ever get used to fighting aliens. It’s been two years since Thanos’ attack, two years since they had managed to pick up the pieces of that battle, and still, Tony will never find it any easier fighting the extraterrestrials; it hadn’t been easy with the Chitauris, and almost hopeless with Thanos; tonight is no different.

Clearly, the creature had rattled something lose within him because Tony starts to feel uncomfortable, the whisper of his earlier discomfort after the battle creeping into his chest. It starts slow, like a pinch somewhere under his ribcage, enough that it makes him shift in his seat and the pinch between his brows become more prominent. In an attempt to look like nothing is wrong, because _I’m fine, I’m good, this rehearsal dinner is important, I can’t fuck this up, fuck, fuck, fuck, I got this_ , Tony picks up his wine glass and takes a long swig of it. The glass of icy water comes next and it does nothing to make the discomfort go away. Tony feels utterly trapped, like the walls are closing in and ground underneath him is sinking. He can feel the panic start to mount and when pressing the cold glass against his cheek in attempt to recreate the comforting feeling of the Winter Soldier’s metal hand does nothing, when the realization that he’s thinking of Bucky _hits_ , Tony feels his stomach drop down to the floor and nausea _roil_ in his gut.

It is not a pleasant feeling realizing that the _thought_ of Bucky, of all people, is synonymous with _comfort_. That it equates to _safety_.

Tony thinks he’s losing his fucking mind, as all these words of _Bucky_ and _safe_ and _need_ float in his head.

He can feel the lobster tail start to turn in his stomach from disgust and mortification.

(What the hell is wrong with you!)

It must have been all over his face when he carefully turns to apologize to the couple, when he tells them that he needs to head back or Captain Drama will start a fuss. After all, no one in the team knows about tonight’s affairs; Tony does not think that his schedule or private commitments had any impact on the team's performance, nor is it any of their business. He is just a consultant and reserve member, only ever called in for big emergencies or quick countermeasures like tonight, _if_ need be. They understand, and Pepper hugs him again, thanks him for coming and making it anyway, tells him she understands and that she hopes they can do coffee tomorrow after their meeting.

There are kisses and hugs and handshakes; it gets too much at some point that Tony all but _runs_ out of the venue, stepping into the crisp air and sucking in gulp after gulp of New York’s crisp spring air.

It does _nothing_ satisfy the _need_ in his chest.

The flight back to the compound is short with the Ironman suit, and Tony works on the report, half narrating and half struggling to form words in between. Tony lands with an audible clank on the landing deck, stepping out of the suit and once again feeling like he’s been held underwater for too long. The longer the whole chest issue thing progresses, the more convinced Tony is that it is probably a panic attack. A panic attack that he takes his time with on the landing deck to get under control as he watches the suit sink into the decontamination and repair bay under the landing pad. Tony shuts his eyes and forces his lungs to work against the stupid panic -- god, he’s been battling aliens for _years_ now. Hell, he _works_ with aliens. This is fucking ridiculous.

Friday’s voice comes alive in his earpiece, voice soft and even. “Captain Rogers has learned of your arrival and is waiting for you in The Office.”

“Of course he is.” Tony grunts, and puts on his big boy pants before he steps into the building.

“Doctor Strange is also in his company and expresses that he is interested in perhaps attaining the recorded footage of the alien before its death.” Friday adds.

“Send it.” Tony answers without thinking, stepping into the elevator and leaning heavily against the wall.

“Footage sent. Will you be making a stop at the medbay, boss?”

“If Steve says I should, then I will. Let’s hope he doesn’t.” Tony says, just as the elevator stops and opens up to The Office, where Steve pushes away from where he had been leaning against the desk and Strange turns to face him. “Hey, boys. Sorry to keep you waiting. Report is done though.”

Tony pulls out his phone and waves it forward, throwing open a projection of the report he had dictated enroute to the Avengers’ Compound. And like he had been doing the past two years, Tony dances to the tune of rules and regulations, talks about the mission and discusses the finer points of his report with his Captain and Strange. This is the first time he is not present for a post mission debrief since the officiating and pardon of the renegades two years ago. When Tony had negotiated his position on the team, had expressed wanting distance as opposed to full immersion after Thanos, he had agreed to adhere to proper operating procedures and a lot of red tape; they are all bound by a very strict contract. Tony is okay with strict contracts. Strict contracts means there is no room for err and that he can be left the fuck alone, his distance respected. Other than tonight, Tony had played the role of being the teammate of the decade that it had been so incredibly uncharacteristic. Tony did not mind playing by the rules no matter how goddamn inconvenient it may be ninety percent of the time, so long as it had meant that Steve would leave him alone and _not_ be on his ass about, well, _anything_.

(You don't want to rekindle the us in that equation; there is no us. There's never been a fucking us.)

Tony plays nice so he doesn’t hear anything nasty. He plays nice because when he does, there are less questions, so long as it’s Avengers business.

He doesn’t give the team a chance to complain.

He doesn’t waste time and breezes through everything because he can’t stand the air around him, feels like he’s choking in the confines of the very large and spacious office. He can feel the sweat building under his his shirt, feels it bead on his temples and his chest constrict further, god he needed to get out. He needed to be out of Steve’s face because he can’t.

(I can’t take this.)

“Any injuries?” Steve asks; Tony can feel his gaze boring holes into his frame.

“None. Checked when I changed.” Tony smiles, looking at spot on Steve’s forehead when he does. “So, tomorrow? Press release? Strange, you good with the footage?”

“Yup.” Strange answers, thumb scrolling on his phone.

“Great.” Tony says, clapping his hands down on his knees. “Anything else you need from me, Cap?”

Like always and because Tony gives Steve no reason to argue, Steve says, “No. Get some rest. You did real good today.”

Tony takes that as his out and gives a mental hurrah that it had only taken ten minutes to finish.

Except when he stands up, Tony feels his knees buckle and his hand fist against the table to brace himself. Suddenly, it’s like he’s in the center of that explosion again, where he feels pressure pushing him down and something sharp clawing at him from under his ribcage. Tony feels his knees _slam_ down to the ground, as he brings a hand up to his chest and starts to choke on his own breath because the air around him is _sour_ , like the rotting flesh of that alien creature. Suddenly, Tony can’t think.

“What -- what the _fuck --_ ” Tony _growls_ , scrunching his eyes as his hands fists against shirt on his chest, watching to reach inwards and snake fingers in between his ribcage and just _yank_ those claws _outoutoutout!_

The world around him shifts from the gray marble floorings of The Office to the pristine white tiles of the medbay. Tony feels himself being hauled off the ground, Steve practically manhandling him onto the table, as Strange places a hand on his forehead. Tony jerks away from the light shining above his pupils, breaths coming out heavy and quick, like he had run a marathon and _oh god, I’m going to be sick._

Tony turns and wretches on the side, wine and water and whatever he had managed to eat at dinner splattering on the floor and he had hoped it’d make him feel better, had hoped that maybe it had been something he ate. Tony feels his body _shake_ , feels the trembling wrack in his joints as Steve and Strange rolls him onto his back and he stares unseeingly at the ceiling, needing something cold, because it’s suddenly so hot, like earlier when he had felt the exothermic blast of the exploding alien creature. And Bucky’s hand had been cold and comforting, and _god, where the hell is he?_

“He’s going into shock.” Strange says, and turns around. "There is no wound, no signs of trauma. Poison maybe? Was he exposed to the alien?"

“Christ --”

"Rogers, was he exposed to the alien? Did he _touch_ anything? Think!"

Tony opens his mouth to say Bucky’s name, to snap at Steve to make himself useful instead of the shit-biscuit he’s being right there. Tony thinks he manages to choke out _something_ , just as the doors slam open and Bucky appears, hanging from the doorframe and looking as breathless and _pale_ , sweat on his forehead and matting his hair as he struggles to cross the distance between the door and table Tony is lying on with legs that do not cooperate.

Something shifts the moment Bucky steps into the room, and Tony watches his fingers reach out for him of its own accord, like he’s partially having an out of body experience. He watches as Steve picks up his friend off the floor, watches as Steve’s face looks confused when Bucky too reaches out for him, reaches for Tony like they’re star crossed lovers.

And then Bucky’s hand is on his, and Tony _shudders_ at the cool metal fingers and feeling of calloused skin slide against the length of his outstretched arms, wrapping around his shoulders. Tony feels his lungs _expand_ with air that tastes as sweet as summer, and the clawing under his ribs subside because like this, in Bucky’s arms and his chin on his shoulder, like this with Bucky’s hand pressing against the back of his head, holding so, _so_  tight like he doesn’t want to let go, like _this_ , Tony feels _safe_.

He closes his eyes and _breathes_ , just as Bucky _breathes_ too, and feels his body sag in _relief_  against the solid frame of the man he had not been able to stop thinking about all goddamn evening.

Tony doesn’t know how long they remain like that, locked in each other’s embrace. All he knows is that the longer they stay this way, the clearer his head becomes.

It is Strange who pulls them apart, Strange who forces distance between them. When he does it, Tony feels his stomach drop to the ground, feels like there is a hole so wide in his chest, like something important had been wrenched out from inside his body. He feels groundless and weightless, like a leaf in the wind.

And when he shakes and feels an involuntary noise that is _needy_ and _helpless_ rip past his throat, when he hears the same leave Bucky’s throat too, Strange releases his hold on Bucky and like opposite sides of a magnet, he and Bucky are locked together again, and god, he can just stay like this in his arms forever.

The world fades to nothing and Tony thinks that’s okay, so long as he remains close to Bucky.

 

TBC

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own Beta. I may have missed some typos and shit; this is an ever-green fic that I am continuously reviewing and editing out typos/mistakes/whatever.

 

Bucky does not recall passing out from what he remembers is absolute relief. 

What he remembers is this:

Tony’s head is on his shoulder, cheek pressing against the damp fabric of his t-shirt, curve of his lips pressed against his neck, parted and soft like butterfly wings against the salty goosebumps that are subsiding on Bucky’s body. He feels the soft breaths come out evenly, of pain and suffocation alleviating with each demand for breath. Tony’s hair is incredibly soft, like smooth silk against Bucky’s cheek, the smell of battle from that evening masked by what Bucky thinks is spice -- like cinnamon and nutmeg. That smell is all over Tony -- on his shirt, his jacket -- but underneath it all, under the expensive scent that Bucky knows must have come from the place Tony had been dressed to the nines for, under the underlying and almost distant smell of sweat and battle, when Bucky presses his nose and lips against Tony’s temple, the smell of musk and tea tree fills his lungs.

It is sweet, just as much as it is deep, unrevealed layers of so many notes that Bucky knows must be either custom made and incredibly expensive. 

The distractions fade away -- the ash, the sweat, the cinnamon and nutmeg, the sterile white and smell of plastic and disinfectant, of needles and rubber gloves, the halogen lights and the sound of Strange and Steve talking to each other in voices that are no doubt loud. It all falls on deaf ears, the clang of equipment, the scrape of wheels on tiles, the swish of the automatic sliding doors opening and closing, of footsteps squeaking and shuffling about the observation room. None of it matters because Bucky pulls back to cradle Tony’s face in his hands.

All that matters is the face looking up at him, at the specs of gold in the sea of dark and rich ambers. Bucky watches Tony’s pupils dilate as he  _ drinks _ the image of Bucky’s face in. Bucky watches as Tony’s lips swipe over the curve of his lips, to ease the dryness there from the breaths that are coming down from its previous panting desperation. He watches as Tony shudders when he brings his flesh hand against his face, listens to the sound of Tony’s voice  _ tremble _ with his name.  _ Barnes _ , he says, soft and breathless, the syllables sounding like a revered prayer; it makes something in Bucky’s chest twist painfully  _ good _ , so,  _ so _ good, that he tugs Tony closer to him, tucks him under his chin, as he closes his eyes and buries his face into his scalp, inhaling deep because this - right here, right now - is what Bucky  _ feels _ he wants to do for the rest of his life.

“It’s okay,” Bucky murmurs. “I got you.” 

So when Bucky comes back to reality, when he blinks up at the  _ glare _ of the white lights above him, the first thing that comes to mind is that he’s back in the chair, that he’s about to undergo reconditioning for a failed assignment, because he had stepped out of line, had fought against the barbwires that they had wrapped around the voice of reason in his head, the one they always, and keep on trying to  _ kill _ for good. The first thing Bucky registers is the hand on his forearm, fingers digging into flesh, no doubt to hold him down and prep him for the chemicals they always pump him with. The second thing he notices is that his handlers are engaged in a heated argument, that the hand on his arm  _ tightens,  _ as more words of how-did-this-happen and you-better-fix-this gets thrown around.

It takes exactly three heart beats for Bucky’s survival instincts to go into overdrive.

It takes another for his hand jerk from under that grip to grip that man’s arm back and to fling him towards the other source of noise in the room. Bucky braces his core an  _ lifts _ , lifting the weight of that entire man like it weighs nothing more than a sack of potatoes. Bucky is on his feet and crouching on the mattress of his hospital bed, just as the crash and IV stands, monitors, chairs and table topple and crash against the far wall.

It takes five seconds for Bucky to realize that he is not in the chair, that this is  _ not _ Hydra, these people are  _ not _ his handlers. Bucky watches as Steve grunts against the wall with  _ horror _ , and even more so when he realizes just  _ who _ he had flung over him. Tony lies in a heap against Steve, wincing as he pushes himself off man and floor, and  _ flinches _ when Steve quickly helps him back on his feet. 

Flinches like it  _ hurt _ him.

(You understand that it would -- any human being getting up after that kind of throw would flinch. It would hurt.)

Bucky doesn’t even  _ think _ .

He doesn’t even know  _ why  _ he doesn’t  _ think _ .

Because he is on his feet and stalking towards Steve with the intention to  _ hurt _ , fists balled and steps every bit the Winter Soldier he is feared to be. Bucky watches as Steve’s eyes  _ widen _ , as he brings an arm up to defend, planting himself between Tony and Steve, a full body shield considering what Bucky had just done.

Bucky reaches forward for Tony’s wrist and  _ yanks _ him against his side, flesh arm wrapping around the nervous quake of Tony’s shoulders as he  _ glares _ and god, he wants to rip Steve a new one when he _ doesn’t know why. _

The pin-drop silence that follows is almost  _ deafening. _

The only sounds that break it is the harsh breathing coming out of Bucky’s nose, and the calming panic breaths pushing past Tony’s lips.

Steve blinks in Bucky’s direction when no fists fly, blinks just as Bucky feels clarity and so much confusion settle on his shoulders like an unwanted blanket. He takes stalk of the room around him, of the mess he had made in his blind panic that will never leave him. 

(No one recovers from Hydra. Not really.)

“Buck?” Steve calls out, tentative, ready to engage if need be.

Bucky knows that the tone behind his nickname is an enquiry to see if he’s got his ducks in line. He knows that nervous look reflecting over the blue and green of Steve’s eyes. He knows it’s fear for him and the unarmored civilian Bucky is holding on to protectively like his life depends on it. Tony may be Ironman but between two super soldiers and without  _ any _ armor at all, he’d crumple as easy as crepe-paper.

So Bucky nods, lips pressing down because what a fuck up, what a goddamn fuck up, this all is and he had been doing well too, without incident. 

(It’s been seventy two days since you’ve reacted in blind panic this way.)

When Steve’s poised defending arm lowers, Bucky feels the tension and rigidity of his spine melt away too. 

He wishes the calming breath he takes then had provided any sort of calm.

It doesn’t answer the question as to why he wants to keep holding on to Tony. It doesn’t explain why he doesn’t want to be separated from him, that when he tries to let him go then and put some professionally polite and contract-conditions distance between then - because he and Tony will never be close, will never be friends, you kind of don’t get to have that when you’re the man who had robbed him of pretty much  _ everything _ \- he feels as if his organs are made of jagged glass and they cut against the walls of his bones and flesh. The lack of contact  _ hurts _ , and Bucky knows  _ hurt _ and  _ pain _ and  _ torture _ .

It is an absolute mind fuck when he finds himself unsure of which had been more painful: the countless rounds on the chair and feel of electric currents  _ broiling _ him from within, or the feel of having Tony Stark a good three feet away from him.

They reach out for each other at the same time, locking their grips on each other’s forearms. Just that touch, that brief contact of skin where Bucky’s flesh hand is on Tony’s forearm feels like sheer relief. Bucky doesn’t get it.

One look at Tony and the frustration, the  _ anger _ on his face, so raw and unbridled, tells Bucky that Tony feels the same way.

(You don’t like not being in control; you don’t like doing things you don’t understand. People get hurt when you do things you can’t control.)

Bucky’s frustration and carefully reigned in temper shows all over his face when he  _ growls _ , “What is happening to me?” He asks, addressing Strange, Steve and Bruce who are not standing a good five feet away from them. Bucky doesn’t blame them. “Why -- why do I want to --” Bucky closes his eyes and clears his throat. “Why do I want to be close to Stark?”

“ _ Tell him _ .” Tony  _ snaps  _ with dig, like a whip cracking, his frame shaking.

And they do.

Bucky listens to Strange and Bruce yack and do exactly that.

They tell him that it’s a spell, and during their brief state of unconsciousness, they had not been able to separate them from each other’s grip. Their blood work and brain scans shows a  _ surge _ of dopamine coursing through their veins, and that the pain they feel, stems from nothing. There is a suggestion that the alien exploding may have released some form of radiation that facilitated the altered and very conditioned state they both are in. That explanation had been Bruce’s part. Strange’s explanation sounds like a voodoo spell, with words about incantations and dimensional energy, about balance and whatever the fuck Bucky cannot comprehend. He had spent the past two years after Thanos fighting exactly shit like this -- he’s never going to get used to it. 

“Neither of you know what the fuck is happening, do you?” Bucky icily says.

“I apologize, were neither of us clear enough?” Strange says, tarty and eyes narrowing. “You are bound to each other. Staying apart will cause physical pain as you both are already aware. So we suggest you two stay put together.”

“No.” Tony says, vehement and vicious.

“Tony, it’s not safe for either of you to be apart.” Steve tries, as always, to be the voice of reason.

“ _ No!” _ Tony says and wrenches his arm free from the soldier, wincing and shaking his head. “No, you need to fix this! I can’t -- with him -- I  _ can’t _ . Okay? Stephen,  _ please. _ ” Bucky can hear the sheer desperation in his tone.

(And how can you blame him for that? Why would he want to be anywhere near you? Why would he want to have anything to do with you beyond a working relationship and what a ninety page document dictates him to do? The bond isn’t real, you know that. You can feel it, you can think it -- you of all people know what it feels like to not have control, to do things that you are forced to do because your body and your brain chemistry and some series of words makes you comply with an action you want no part of. Do you honestly think Tony would want that too? He may not have gone through Hydra’s conditioning, but don’t forget Afghanistan. You read that about him -- remember?)

Bucky doesn’t see what’s on Tony’s face, but it must have been a sight to behold, the kind that tugs something in the depths of a person because Strange’s shoulders slump, Bruce looks away and Steve ducks his gaze to the ground, jaw sharp and tense.

“Look, Tony, I need  _ time _ .” Stephen says with a defeated sigh. “I have the footage you sent me. I’m going to see if I can translate it, see if I can understand the spell and maybe find a way to reverse-engineer it. But for now, Tony, there’s really nothing I can do. I can’t risk casting another spell without understanding what I’m working with. That may cause more harm and I’m not willing to gamble both your safety.”

“How long?” Tony asks and when Strange doesn’t answer, Tony  _ curses _ . “Fucking christ, Stephen, give me  _ something! _ ”

“Give me a week. Maybe two.”

“That’s too much!” There is hysteria in Tony’s tone; it bleeds into the laugh that follows it as he brings his hands to his face and scrubs it down viciously. “No, it needs to be before that!”

“Tony -- “ 

“Can it, Rogers! Okay?” Tony  _ shouts _ , voice bouncing around the walls of the observation room as Tony begins to lose all his marbles. “You’re not the one who can’t keep his hands off the last person you ever want to be close to, so for fuck’s sake, just  _ can it! _ ”

But Steve doesn’t can it, and Bucky wants to tell him to stop, to just let Tony’s anger roll out. Instead, Steve straightens and argues right back. “If you’re worried about breaking contract, clause thirty two dictates that if and when parties concerned are in a medical state of emergency, leave may be granted to the parties involved! Both of your safeties are compromised and the best way to deal with it at this point and time is to stay put and wait until Strange can come back with more concrete to work of off! It’s safer for the both of you to be here, within close quarters, than it is to be separate, because none of us can figure out how this can affect the both of you physically, if it will hurt --”

“Do you think I give a rat’s ass about the contract right  _ now _ , Rogers?” Tony turns, and steps into Steve’s space. “Clause thirty two also dictates that the party concerned can  _ refuse _ treatment or conditions put forward if they so choose. Clause thirty three A also states that  _ consent _ to accept suggestions for treatment must be made clear and clause thirty three B also states that if the person is not in their right state of mind, then their listed next of kin, legal proxy or attorney may make that call if there is a record of such a person existing. Otherwise, it falls into the hands of the world security council. _ I  _ am in a sound state of mind and I’m telling you that I am absolutely not in fucking  _ love _ with the Winter Soldier over there.” Tony snaps his fingers. “Hey, James Buchanan Barnes, are you in love with me?”

Bucky feels the question slap him across the face. The answer is obvious. “No.”

Tony claps his hand to make a point and Bucky watches Steve’s face plummet further. “I am not accepting this treatment of containment. Had it been  _ any other goddamn time of the year _ , I would have. But not  _ this _ two weeks.”

“What’s so more important than your own safety and well being and that of others, too,” Steve gestures to Bucky, “that you are not willing to compromise for a short period?”

“You know what Rogers, the word  _ compromise _ has no  _ right _ to be on your goddamn tongue. Because you, of all people, have no clue what that means.” Tony says, and this is where Bucky steps in, this is where he puts a hand on Tony’s shoulders and ushers him out of the room.

Tony doesn’t even fight him, doesn’t even resists as Bucky urges him past the sliding door and into another room away from the clusterfuck of a mess. Bucky finds a spare observation room and steps both of them into it, waiting for the door to slide shut and a good minute of Tony pacing up and down, heels of his palms  _ digging _ in is eyes, like he’s trying to push away the migraine.

“Look,” Bucky starts. “I get it. But Steve’s not wrong. No one knows how this may affect us in the long run. I can take a little physical pain, I can heal from it. But Stark, you  _ can’t _ .”

“Excuse me -- “

“Let me  _ finish _ .” Bucky grounds out, teeth grinding. Tony stops pacing and leans against the pristine bed, fist bunching up the folded sheets and chin jutting up in a defensive gesture, a front on being brave. “The armor isn’t going to do shit right now. So in this, whatever this is, you  _ are _ a civilian, Stark and you are not safe. Had it been anyone else, maybe you wouldn’t have reacted this way. But it’s  _ me _ , and  _ I _ get it. I don’t want to make this difficult for you anymore than it already is. I  _ am _ willing to compromise for your sake for the next two weeks because there must be something important, right?”

Tony ducks his head, jaw locking before he nods and grinds out, “Pepper and Rhodey’s wedding ceremony is in two weeks.”

“Oh…” Bucky says, and now it makes perfect sense. Tony strives for nothing but perfection, doesn’t cut corners for those he cares about. Of course he’d be livid about having to be  _ bound _ to someone like him when something important like that is just around the corner. Of course, he’d go batshit  _ mad _ when Steve throws arguments that may have worked in any other situation but not with this. 

This is personal.

So personal that Bucky is not surprised that no one in the team knows. Steve certainly doesn’t. The entire affair is clearly kept very private.

Because if Steve had  _ known _ , he wouldn’t have argued the way he had earlier.

Steve would understand.

Bucky knows this.

“Yeah. See, I’m not around all the time, I’m on reserve status; you are a fully functioning active member of the Avengers. You’re integral to the team. We don’t know when we’ll have another alien situation again, this is the second one this  _ month _ . So yeah, I care when the team is crippled. I cannot in good conscience take you off the roster for two weeks just because I can’t stand to be away from you and because I have more non-human-life-extinction and non-threatening personal  _ agenda _ to attend to.” Tony bites the word agenda out like he’s making a mockery of the word itself. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says.  _ Of course, it isn’t personal; it’s  _ **_very_ ** _ personal.  _ “No, I get it. I do.”

“That doesn’t solve the dilemma. Can we both agree, for our sanities, that we don’t want each other’s shadows hanging over our shoulder, no matter how incredibly good it is? Can we acknowledge that everything here, between us, is very falsified and beyond our control?”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods, and leans against the door, tilting his head to the ceiling. “Yeah, it is. Sorry.”

“Me too.” Tony murmurs, and brings his hand up to his face once more. Bucky watches the troubled look marr the handsome face, watch how Tony’s shoulders slump in utter defeat at once again, getting cornered into a spot he doesn’t have much room to get out of. He watches as something that looks like failure and sadness settle over the lines of his shoulder as his hands swipes upwards to card trembling fingers through his hair.

It takes exactly ten seconds for Bucky to make a decision.

(You tell yourself you can only do this much, and that in the long run, it probably won’t even earn you the right to forgiveness, that it won’t make up for anything you’ve done to him, whether or not it had been in your control -- it’s still your hands. You still did it, yeah?)

“Look, I’ll make a deal with you, tit for tat. I’ll take a leave of absence for the next two weeks, just so that you can get to do what you need to do for Rhodes and Potts. If -- let me finish --  _ if _ this mess doesn’t get reversed within those two weeks, and Strange empty handed, you can switch it up and be on active duty or whatever else the WSC asks of you. If two weeks later, still stuck, then I’ll ask for another leave of absence and whatever. That way, you do you, and I do me as the WSC sees fit.”

“This isn’t a bartering system!” Tony sounds outrageous.

“No. But it does say in clause sixty one that individuals are required to take time off for no more than ten working days every three months, provided in those three months they successfully complete a minimum of eight Category-1 missions, five or more Category-2 missions or two or more Category-3 missions. Clause A says that it is the individual’s decision to bypass that time off if they want to, provided they pass psych-eval and they are deemed red-flag free by the panel. Clause B also then says that should the individual can sign a waiver and club time offs together for later use, mandatory time off included, for their use when they deem fit.” Bucky straightens, arms going behind his back, chin tilting up in challenge, daring Tony to contradict him. “I’ve signed that waiver. I’ve passed all the evals. In the past six months, I’ve completed over fifteen Category-3 missions. I’m not gonna count the rest. I’m sure you can do the math. You know these contracts like the back of your hand.”

Tony blinks once. And then blinks again. “Wow.” He shakes his head. “I was not expecting  _ that _ .”

“I’m  _ not _ an idiot, Stark.” Bucky says, with a little bite behind the words. “I wouldn’t agree to a document that I didn’t understand.”

“Well, that makes you the better person, I suppose.” Tony mutters, and Bucky knows exactly what he’s talking about.

He doesn’t take the bait.

He sweeps the comment under the rug.

“So?” Bucky shrugs. “Does that sound like a compromise you can work with?”

Tony  _ sighs  _ with a visible shudder, no doubt a result of the spell and lacking Bucky’s physical contact. “Yeah well, what choice do I have? That’ll work. Worst come to worst, it’s a good thing I don’t have a plus one, yet.” 

Tony gives him a once over and waves a hand over. Their hands lock like a handshake, leeching off the comfort for a few minutes in the most civil manner possible. Bucky deduces, that provided they stay within each other’s range, provided there are pockets of contact in between, neither of them would crumple and lose their minds in a needy haze. Yeah, sure, he can work with this.

“For what it’s worth, I’m not deriving any pleasure than what is falsified by the spell.” Bucky murmurs, closing his eyes as he tries to remain very still and  _ not _ caress Tony’s hand the way something in his gut is pushing him to.

It makes phantom butterflies flutter in stomach.

“How the fuck am I going to explain this to Pepper and Rhodey?” Tony asks, sounding so desolate and face twisting into something that belays distraught. 

Bucky honest to god feels sorry for him. While Pepper and Rhodey had been and always will be civil to him, Bucky is sure that neither of them wants him in their very special day. Hell, why would anyone want that? He’s not exactly the world’s most beloved individual, pardoned and deemed victim or not.

“Just tell them the truth.” Bucky answers, shrugging. “They’re good and intelligent people; I’m sure they’ll understand?”

\--

They kind of do and kind of don’t.

Tony finds himself leaning against the far wall of Bucky’s shared apartment with Sam and Steve, on video conference with the bride and groom, ear piece on and watching them justify how they kind of do understand, how it’s not a big deal, how they start talking about maybe alternative seating arrangements to accommodate this unfortunate development. It goes as far as Rhodey suggesting to make Bucky a groomsman, just to minimize all the fuss. 

The bit where they kind of don’t understand shows in the frowns, the confusion that decorates their face because it’s not a simple manner of not being bound to someone forcefully. They had to address the fact that Tony actually feels physical pain when he is not close to the Winter Soldier. Magic never sits on the same spectrum as logic, and Tony knows it is that lack of understanding in the mystic arts that is making them feel and wear the whole that’s-a-real-thing-how-is-that-possible look.

It doesn’t erase the fact that Tony singlehandedly - and unreasonably - thinks that he had, more or less, ruined their wedding because of this development. He wants to say that he can step back, but knows how well that kind of reasoning will go down with the two of them. He knows his role in their lives, knows how much it means to them for him to be present, as both the person who will walk Pepper down the aisle with her sister and as Rhodey’s bestman. He knows his place in this wedding.

It doesn't stop him from feeling like an total heel, though.

The hurt and guilt is as profound as the sharp pain he feels when Bucky is too far away from him, or when he doesn’t feel the warmth of his touch.

(It hurts as bad as the time when you realized, the moment he had said  _ yes _ , the moment it had hit you between the eyes, that your relationship, the secret that you had shared in the dark shadows of the tower and later on, the compound, the smiles in the dark, the arms you wake up to in the morning, the coffee in bed and kisses that you wake up to in the morning had been worth nothing -- it had been your secret to keep, it had been your little piece of heaven. It hurts as bad as the time when you realize that when Steve had made his choice, when he had slammed that shield down on your chest to stop you from your blind rage, because he  _ knows you _ , he knows you  _ so well _ , you would never live with yourself if you had actually  _ killed Steve _ . You would never forgive yourself if you took away one of the very few things Steve had that is important to him.

But he had lied.

For betrayal to happen, there should be trust. The shield had not just rammed through the armor and bruised skin and fractured bones. Those wounds have long healed. No, it had had gone straight through Tony’s heart. 

That wound is going to last a lifetime.)

“Tony, I know that look. I know that. Stop it. I am not mad that the everyone knows and that it’s official. We’re still keeping it small, we still want you there.  _ Stop it _ .” Pepper says, shaking her head.

“It’s no one’s fault. And you know he’s not that bad. I’ve worked with him, I don’t mind having him around. He’s all right and mostly keeps to himself. It’s fine. We’ll tell him that in the cake-tasting tomorrow. I’m pretty sure, like you, he finds this uncomfortable too. You’re both on the same boat.”

“Besides, you said that Strange may come up with a solution.” Pepper holds up her hand to hush the argument Tony wants to make when he opens his mouth. “Ah-ah! That does not mean we wouldn’t want him there either. Yes, we wanted to keep it strictly family and very close friends only, but come on, Tony. It’s fine.”

“We should prepare for the fact that maybe Strange won’t come up with a solution and just assume he’ll be present.” Rhodey nods and Pepper murmurs an agreement. “Does he have a suit?”

Tony shrugs. “Hey, Barnes!” Tony calls out from the corner of the living room, watching as Sam and Steve gives him looks from their seats on the sofa. Bucky is in his room packing a bag; they had filed the paperwork earlier and had left the compound to make a stop  to collect Bucky’s thing before heading to one of the apartments Tony keeps for his use upstate for inconvenient shit-storms like this. Bucky calls out a yeah from the room. “Do you have a suit?”

Bucky comes out with a two piece business suit on a hanger, something he had worn once or twice in formal business events and Tony finds his nose wrinkling at the sight of it.

“Yeah, that’s the oh-god-gross face.” Pepper says, laughing.

“I’d say it’s more of a no-fucking-way-in-hell face.” Rhodey chirrups.

Tony waves Bucky off with a shake of his head. “I’ll take care of it. See you guys tomorrow.”

“We love you, Tony.” The couple choruses and the call ends.

Tony  _ sighs _ and tucks the phone away, pulling his earpiece out and crossing his arms across his chest. Bucky steps out with a duffel bag, suit in hand. “Do I need this?” Bucky asks, gesturing to the suit as he drops the duffel bag by the door.

“No. Burn it.” Tony mutters.

“Ass.” Barnes murmurs under his breath without bite, but disappears into his room to put the suit away. 

“So!” Tony says, addressing the room, that is, Steve and Sam. “Did Danvers confirm yet?”

“Yes.” Steve answers, nodding and getting to his feet, hands slipping into his pockets. “She’ll fill Bucky’s space. We’ll be okay.”

“Great. She’s good.” Tony says and makes the mistake of meeting Steve’s gaze.

The distance between them, despite the small apartment, feels like a chasm that is about as wide and deep as the Mariana Trench. Tony sees now, the pain reflecting over the surfaces of those blue-green eyes, sees guilt and remorse and so much regret for not doing better. He sees the fight for redemption Steve wants to fight. Sees the  _ need _ there, all that want, all those things that Tony too, thinks he can never let go.

God, Steve still loves him.

(Of course, he does. He had never stopped. Just like how you never have, no matter what you tell yourself, no matter how many bottles you empty.)

Looking away  _ hurts _ .

Looking away feels like swallowing glass, and the frustrating bit of it all is that Tony doesn’t know if it’s the need to feel Bucky’s physical touch from the spell of if it’s really his heart yearning for the man standing but five feet away, the very man he had willingly given whatever jagged pieces had been left of his heart, willingly and without question because, he’s Steve Rogers.

Tony had trusted him.

“God, Tony…” Steve says, his voice _thick_.

“Save it.” Tony says, shaking his head, as Bucky steps back out and nods. “You know where to find us.” 

Tony doesn’t wait and turns around. He had not expected the clamp of Steve’s gentle hold on his wrist, he doesn’t mean to wince, doesn’t mean to yank his hand back like he’s been burnt. He doesn’t mean to act like the world biggest douche to the man he knows deserves closure, or at least they both deserve to actually address a festering issue that’s been sitting under their ribcage for over two years and still counting

Bucky’s hand reaching out like a whiplash to hold Steve’s hand in place, away from Tony is something  _ none _ of them had expected. 

Bucky’s face shows it all, the surprise, the blink and the guilt all mixing on his face.

“Sorry, Steve. It’s not me. I - just don’t touch him, okay? Just leave him alone.” Bucky says.

Tony doesn’t need to turn to see the stumped if not devastated look on his face.

He doesn’t linger either.

Tony bolts out of the apartment like a spooked cat, rushing down the steps and bypassing the elevator, until he reaches his car and slides in, trying to catch his breath and knowing that it’s useless because it’s the spell. It’s not panic, it’s not fear, it’s just the fucking spell.

(Are you sure?)

The hand on his shoulder is like a warm fire in the middle of an icy winter. Tony shudders at the feel of it, hates himself for feeling like he needs it, and feels his temper bubble without his control when he tells himself that it’s no one’s fault, that Bucky needs this too, grow up and put on your big-boy pants. Enough, already,  _ enoughenoughenoughenough!  _

“I’m sorry.” Bucky says, voice barely above a whisper. 

“It’s not your fault.” Tony says, shaking his head.

“It’s not yours either.” Bucky points out.

“Is it?” Tony turns, pinning him with a look, daring to him say otherwise. Tony knows that he and Steve had kept whatever it is they had to themselves, an agreement to want that little piece of heaven to remain between them. He doesn’t know if Steve had made that information known to Bucky, if he had said anything at all about Siberia to anyone, other than the Wakandan king. Tony doesn’t know, nor does he care. The past is the past and talking about it isn’t going to change a damn thing. So he  _ waits _ and  _ dares _ Bucky to just defend his childhood friend. 

Tony wants him to.

Bucky doesn’t.

(He had no right to say anything, anyway.)

“Ready to go?” Bucky asks instead.

“Yeah.” Tony nods, swallowing thickly and switching car on, the moment passing unconcluded; Tony hopes that will be the last time they have this kind of ‘conversation’ - for his sanity’s sake. “Yeah...”

 

TBC   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAH. KAY.
> 
> BAI. 
> 
> THANK YOU FOR READING AND GIVING THIS A CHANCE! YOUR COMMENTS AND KUDOS MEANS A LOT TO ME XOXO


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own Beta. I may have missed some typos and shit; this is an ever-green fic that I am continuously reviewing and editing out typos/mistakes/whatever.

The rooftop apartment is too large for one person, floor to ceiling windows, sharp lines and too much floor space. Bucky can see the glimmering New York skyline from the moment he had stepped past the door. On one side of the spacious living room, white linen drapes hang over glass to give some measure of privacy, opening up to a space where an eight-person L-shaped sofa rests atop a thick woolen carpet. When the light comes on, Bucky finds his neck craning up to the light fixtures that dot the ceiling like little stars; the place doesn’t have much color, save perhaps for the large painting on one wall and the bowl of fruit on top of the open kitchen counter.

It is easily one of the nicer apartments Bucky had the grace to actually stay in.

It is also cold, empty, almost impersonal, even after Tony toes he shoes off and drops his jacket over the sofa’s armrest, making a beeline for the kitchen. Bucky watches, like a centerpiece in the middle of the apartment, taking note of the exits and the observation deck facing the city, neck craning up to follow the short winding staircase that he assumes will lead to the rooms.

Tony doesn’t speak after he tells him which room he can have and to make himself comfortable; he says this after he takes two gulps of bourbon. Then, he simply sits on one side of the sofa, feet propped up on the center table, glass in hand and open bottle on standby by his ankle as the place lights up with Stark Industry product designs.

Bucky keeps himself scarce after that, orienting himself with the entire apartment before finding refuge on the other side of the couch. Staying in his room is useless, because that would only hurt them both. Bucky also had no plans on sleeping, not after the incident in the medbay and certainly not when he knows there’s a civilian around him, Ironman or not, who he can remotely harm because he can’t keep control of what goes on in his head when he closes his eyes.

Whether or not Tony sleeps, he isn’t sure.

But when he blinks from his side of the couch, the sun is high in the sky, the apartment smells like coffee and the bottle of bourbon on the table is empty. Bucky doesn’t remember dozing off in the middle of reading off his tablet, but he finds Tony in the kitchen, sipping coffee, eyes hollow and exhausted. He waves Bucky over, gesturing to the coffee and tells him they leave in a bit, dress comfy, it’ll take a while.

Bucky hadn’t been exactly sure how the next two weeks ahead would be like. He certainly had a misconception of what a hoity-toity affair the entire ordeal would be, considering Tony is taking care of the wedding and each time the team had talked about Tony’s parties, it had always been tacked with words like over-the-top or expensive-as-shit or stuff-you-need-to-experience-at-least-once.

So it is with a bit of a trepidation and a lot of awkwardness that Bucky follows Tony around like a silent shadow and finds himself stepping into the chic confines of Madison Lee’s cake boutique, one clear spring day on a Tuesday, at exactly ten thirty. The place isn’t very big, with a lot of ceiling-high glass and wooden floor boards, white paint and crisp white linen covering customized wooden carved tables. The place feels a little more homey as opposed to something more exclusive, certainly feels a lot more personal than Tony’s own apartment. It’s also at least feels like a place that wouldn’t let Bucky step past the threshold of the entrance in his jeans and sneakers.

Bucky is greeted by the soon to be wed groom. Rhodey smiles toothily and shakes his hand and offers him a seat at the table, where cups of steaming coffees and tall glasses of water for three people are set out.

In fact the entire affair had been set out for three people.

Bucky assumes that Pepper should be on the way, and is surprised when Rhodey laughs and shakes his head when he asks about her.

“Nah, man.” Rhodey chuckles. “It’s just us three here today. We are supposed to try uh -- uh -- how many was it, Tones?”

“Twelve cake flavors. Pepper had been here earlier with her sister and she had narrowed it down to twelve. We decide today.” Tony answers without preamble, picking up the glass of water and draining it; Bucky knows it’s to probably flush out the entire bottle of bourbon he had emptied last night.

“I don’t know nothing about cake.” Bucky says, feeling a touch displaced and caught off guard by the involvement he is expected to be a part of.

“Buddy, do we look like we know? Help a brother out. Just say which sucks and which one is okay and we’ll take it from there. You’re stuck here, anyway. I’ll take a second, third and fourth opinion where I can. Relax. Enjoy yourself. Pepper says cake here is great.” Rhodey says.

Bucky can’t say he misses how Tony’s lips curve up in a smile he fails to hide behind the rim of his second glass of water.

There isn’t much to say when the head baker who goes by the name of Lily steps in with far too many cakes than Bucky can say he is capable of caring for. She starts by introducing them to something that is called Pink Champagne that is topped with a layer of raspberry mousse and vanilla buttercream. Bucky thinks it’s not so bad, and manages to keep a straight face when Tony waits for Lily to turn around before quickly spitting the cake into a napkin. Bucky then proceeds to watch him spit out seven of the flavors and go as far as cringing when Lily serves them something she had called Ginger Spice and Tropical Guava. Bucky had not said word throughout and is the only out of the three of them who had finished every slice of cake on his plate. Bucky had not said a word when Tony had pushed his plate of Caramel Apple his way; Bucky had eaten that too without complaint.

When Lily leaves them to their privacy to discuss their final choice, Bucky watches how Tony reaches out to drain their freshly filled cups of coffee without flinching.

“I warned you how useless I was going to be before this.” Tony says, shaking his head. “I don’t like cake. You know this. I was supposed to be your emotional support to not fuck up the five tiered cake choice here. But if you want debate, you can ask the Cake Boss.” Tony jerks a thumb in Bucky’s direction. Which makes him pause midchew on the last slice of Tropical Guava. “God, how can you eat that?”

“It’s not that bad.” Bucky says and it comes out earnest.

(You don’t know much about cake because the only memory of cake you even have is one that you remember posing with for a photo back in the day. It had been the fourth of July and your mother and father had managed to pull together enough money to afford a small two layered vanilla cake from the bakery four blocks away. Your memory of that day is about as unclear as a faded polaroid photograph, where you think you may have been grinning ear to ear, an arm around both your younger sisters, the cake in the middle of the table, alight with sparkling candles. You don’t remember the colors of the frosting, you don’t remember the patterns of said frosting. But sometimes, on the rare occasion that you dream of Bucky’s past, the one that had been full of optimism and bravery, the Bucky who knew how to have a good time, the one who loved to dance and sing, the one who knew how to show a good time, the good man who had wanted to serve his country like his father and his father before that, you remember the sound of your sister’s laughter, you remember their happy hums when they say how delicious that cake had been.

You may even remember how sweet it had tasted.

You remember how happy you had been because your family may not have had much, but you had gotten by and that day had been a really good day.)

“All right then, so.” Rhodey looks around the table and starts to shuffle some plates around, creating a clear divide on the table. “I’ve narrowed it down to this four: Grand Marnier, Spiked Red Velvet, Peanut Butter Cup and Chocolate -- what did she say this was?”

“Chocolate Dream.” Tony murmurs, and reaches up to push his tinted glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose.

“Right, so what do you guys think? I mean, the both of you are gonna be there. If you wanted cake, which of these four would you go for?” Rhodey asks, gesturing to the cakes.

Bucky doesn’t answer as to which gets his winning vote and just shrugs again instead. “I’ll eat anything. It’s food.” And this is where Tony and Rhodey exchange looks and Rhodey ends up rubbing the back of his head in what seems like an awkward gesture. It is the strange and almost deer-in-headlights look that Tony is giving him that makes Bucky shift in his seat. It looks like guilt and pity and uncertainty all rolling into one. It had to be the spell making him think that it’s not a suitable look on Tony’s face because it ages him, it makes him look vulnerable and Ironman is meant to be invincible. So Bucky clears his throat and feels his tongue form the words, “I mean, if I had to choose, I - uh, I guess this one?”

Bucky points at Chocolate Dream and watches how the tension sort of leaves Tony’s shoulder.

When he feels the butterfly wings flutter in his stomach, Bucky knows for sure that it is the spell’s doing and this is fucking ridiculous. He knows exactly which direction to point the blame at when he also feels victory fill his lungs at Tony gesticulating in Rhodey’s direction, the dimple on his cheek hollowing just the tiniest bit as he tries to suppress his obvious amusement.

(You think it’s quite beautiful; you think you can understand why Steve had found him attractive. You’re not sure if the thought is your own or if it’s the spell -- you find that you don’t actually care about that little detail either way.)

“Chocolate is safe.” Rhodey nods, a pensive expression twisting his face.

“Everyone likes chocolate.” Tony punctuates.

“All right.” Rhodey nods and stands up. “I’ll go finalize this and we can tick cake off the list.”

Rhodey leaves their table to converse with Lily at the counter.

This is where Tony reaches out to press a hand against the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket, swallowing thickly and counting exactly ten seconds before he pulls his hand away. In what looks like a nervous gesture, he picks up Rhodey’s half empty cup of coffee, drains it and then takes Bucky’s untouched cup of coffee and drains that too.

“Listen, uh, look.” Bucky sighs; he can’t be here. This isn’t his place. “This is a private thing. I know you guys wanted to keep it between family and you don’t have to be nice and polite and drag me and involve me in it just because of what happened. I don’t want to get in your way. I can just wait in the car next time and if you need me, just come out or something for, you know…”

“It was Rhodey and Pepper’s idea.” Tony says, dismissive and dry. “I actually don’t want you here but you know, my friends are nice and humane and I’m an asshole and it’s their wedding so I gotta do what they ask me to do. Oh, right, uh, you may or may not get bumped into being a groomsman. Rhodey will let us know. So, FYI.”

“The assholery is justified, all things considered -- “

“Really? We’re talking about this now? In a cake shop?” Tony hisses, and Bucky can see the tinge of red starting to spread around the tips of Tony’s ears, a sign, he realizes, that means his temper is boiling in his veins.

“I just don’t want trouble for you, all right?”

“This isn’t about me, this is about them! If you are so hellbent in not being trouble, then suck it up and do what they want you to do, because it’s their big day and the last thing I want to do is cause more trouble for them. You wanna blame someone, blame them for being decent human beings who care far too much for their fucked up friend. Do what they want you to do, that is what I need of you right now. And if that means shopping for bouquets, trying more cake, trying more catered food and putting on an uncomfortable penguin suit and doing everything that you absolutely loathe or do not understand, then you owe me that much, wouldn’t you say?” Tony grits out, and forces a smile on his face when Rhodey looks over his shoulder, maintaining a pretense that everything at the table is all right.

Tony does not need to say it; Bucky knows they’re the only thing resembling a family to Tony.

He gets it.

So he reluctantly nods, and exhales slowly.

And when Rhodey comes back to the table, tucking his wallet into his pocket and cocks an eyebrow, asking them if everything’s okay, Bucky watches Tony smile like they hadn’t thrown the weight of Bucky’s sins into his face indirectly.

“Yup. Always.”

\--  
If anything, Tony is not rude to him nor does he behave like an asshole towards him. Over the course of the next week, they go to different places looking at bouquets, meeting musicians, and try far too much food than Bucky is capable of remembering at this point. By the end of the first week, Bucky accompanies Tony to a bridal boutique for Pepper’s last dress fitting with Vera Wang. It is a very private fitting and quite last minute because Pepper’s sister had not been able to make the flight into New York, and with no one else to assist, Pepper had called Tony.

Standing there in the middle of the room and looking at her reflection, dressed in what Bucky had understood to be one of Wang’s iconic princess ball gown dresses, customized to fit their wedding theme, a thin strip of gray silk bow tied at the waist. Pepper had clipped her hair up and there had been an animated but no animosity argument about how Tony should clip the veil on. Bucky had watched them bicker like siblings and can see no regret, no I-wish-I-did-better, or this-could-have-been-mine from Tony’s side.

Tony instead is standing on the side, a soft smile on his face as he watches Pepper smooth the chiffon and lace, fingers fiddling with the edge of the gray bow. She looks nervous, suddenly unsure.

“You think we’ll be okay?” Pepper asks, blinking at her fingers. There is a mild tremor in her voice; Bucky recognizes it as nerves. He had been reading about weddings to avoid sleep, just so that he did not feel like a lumbering idiot during these kinds of trips.

“Of course you’ll be okay.” Tony says, and steps up to stand in front of her, taking both her hands in his. “Pep, you got this. You know, you guys, you and Rhodey -- you’re going to be great. I dunno why this didn’t happen sooner.”

Bucky takes a step back, looking away until he presses himself against a wall; this isn’t a conversation he wants to hear, this isn’t a conversation he should be standing and listening to. It’s private, it’s personal, it’s Tony’s life that he doesn’t and hasn’t made a point to share with anyone.

But he hears everything anyway, no matter how much Bucky doesn’t want to.

“You and I…” Pepper starts and trails off.

“You and I were better as friends and colleagues than we were as lovers, Pep. Hey,” Tony whispers, “I love you both. Okay? No lie. I am so, so happy for you. You will be the most beautiful bride.”

(If you were to put a sound to what honesty sounds like, you think it’s that right there.)

Bucky keeps his gaze on the ground, and when he hears a sniffle and the shuffle of fabric, he looks up to find Pepper turning to face him, swiping fingers from under her eyes and then smoothing her dress.

“Tony is rather biased. So, be honest, Mr. Barnes.” Pepper says and sucks in a deep breath and straightens her back. “What do you think? Does this look okay?”

Bucky gives her a look over and nods. He knows nothing about dresses, doesn’t understand the tens of thousands dollar price tag or designers. But one thing is for sure. “I think you look very beautiful, Miss Potts.”

The words contains no lie and if Bucky feels his breath come short when Tony smiles at him, grateful and unguarded, he blames the spell once more.

(That smile becomes the only thing you think about.)

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes.” Pepper says, flushing and smiling brightly, grateful. “Oh, did you manage to find a suit for yourself?”

“Uhm…” Bucky starts and when he sees the panic reflecting in Tony’s widening eyes, when he reads the oh-fuck-I-forgot expression on his face that he is trying so hard to hide because Pepper knows him to well, the lie comes out easy and quick. “Yeah, Stark and I are getting the final fitting this afternoon?”

Bucky barely gets enough mental power to digest the fact that he can read and understand the man subtle expressions on Tony’s usually very guarded expression. It’s not Tony he had forgotten; it’s reasonable that he had forgotten, what with between Stark Industries, the World Security Council and the wedding.

“Oh! Fantastic!” Pepper says, and carefully picks up her dress. “All right then, let me get out of this and we can wrap this up.”

Tony helps her towards the dressing room, picking up the trail. When he joins Bucky back in the waiting room, he looks grateful and thanks him. There is no animosity in the way he does, because at this point, Bucky knows Tony is just exhausted. He doesn’t sleep, he constantly works and drinks a little too much while doing stress-management. Tony is making phone-calls and manages to secure an emergency appointment to secure a suit for Bucky.

“We’ll go get you fitted after here.” Tony says.

Bucky nods and when Tony reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Let me drive.” Bucky offers, and had expected a lot more resistance. He had not expected Tony to just hand him the car keys. Their fingers brush momentarily and like magnets, their hands lock in a tight grip, and Bucky watches Tony’s shoulders sag, a soft sigh leaving his lips as he shakes his head and keeps his gaze on the floor, fingers gripping his tight, like he can’t stop himself from clinging onto Bucky’s warmth.

“This ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Any news from Strange?”

“Not a peep.” Tony mutters, clearly disappointed.

“Maybe he’ll call soon.” Bucky says, and Tony nods.

When Pepper steps out, they part ways, putting a good feet between them. They escort Pepper to her waiting car and Bucky watches as Tony wraps his arms around her, watches how his face softens and the smile lingers around the corners of his lips. When she pulls away, she reaches out to press a slender hand on Bucky’s arm, thanking him for his time and honesty before she steps into the car and they watch Happy pull out from the road.

“You have good friends, Stark.” Bucky says, as they turn and head to their own car. “Potts and Rhodes.”

“It’s not like you don’t have good friends, either, Barnes. You’re a lucky guy to have someone covering your back, no matter what. No matter the odds.” Tony responds, as Bucky unlocks the car and he slides into the passenger seat, tugging the seatbelt on.

“He’s you friend too.” Bucky mutters, turning the ignition on. “He’d do the same for you.”

“Just drive, please…” Tony says, sounding so, so tired as he leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

Bucky drives and by the time they part outside the boutique, he turns to find Tony asleep in his chair, head tilted and breaths even and deep. Bucky hesitates to wake him up and glances at the clock. They are ten minutes early to their appointment and he doesn’t think there should be anything wrong in being another ten minutes late. So he leaves Tony to sleep, leaning heavily against the chair. He doesn’t know when he turns to look at Tony again, doesn’t know when casual glance had turned to a full on staring fest. Bucky can’t look away, can’t take his eyes off the parted lips, the sight exhaustive knit of Tony’s brows, the sound of his soft breaths brushing against said parted lips. Like this, Tony looks nothing like the shark of a business man he can be, he doesn’t look like Ironman, he doesn’t look intimidating.

He looks alone, surrounded by the empty spaces of the many homes that is not actually home, far too cold and drowning in solitude. Tony Stark is not what the media portrays him to be. People and fans and haters flock around him, eat off his hand, buys the charm and billion dollar smile, they say his name like he’s a messiah but they don’t know what Bucky knows. They don’t know how his only company away from the sun and noise and camera flashes is Friday, his work and the rack of expensive bourbon and whiskey. They don’t know that he only truly talks to only two people, and even then, they are rare occasions. They don’t know that he spends little to no time for himself, cares little for himself, where food mostly goes untouched and sometimes forgotten. They don’t know how deep self loathing can go.

Bucky reaches out once twenty minutes go by and gives Tony a gentle shake on the arm. “Hey,” He says softly and watches Tony come to, eyelashes fluttering and opening to reveal bloodshot red. “We’re here.”

Tony looks down at the hand on his arm, and Bucky doesn’t know what possesses him. His hand goes up from the arm to the side of Tony’s face, fingertips brushing against soft skin as he reaches up for the glasses resting on top of his head and carefully drops it back on its perch on the bridge of Tony’s nose.

It is too intimate.

And that intimacy makes something warm bloom on Tony’s cheeks.

The spell breaks the moment Tony unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car.

They spend an hour getting Bucky fitted with something Tony deems acceptable. The entire ordeal goes by smoothly, and the only thing that makes Bucky feel like there are feathers inside the soles of his shoes is the fact that Tony has not once taken his eyes off him. From the moment they outfit him with shoes, to the adjusting and pinning and countless measurements, Tony’s eyes remain locked on Bucky’s frame like he’s hypnotized.

(You don’t blame him; you can’t take your eyes off him too.)

By the time they have a suit picked out and they are promised a forty eight hour express service, Tony says, “We need to do something about your hair.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, with no argument. Tony takes his hand and looks at his fingers, nose wrinkling and tongue clicking. “My nails too?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure.” Bucky nods. “Today?”

“I know someone. We can do all this in the apartment.” Tony says an let’s go of his hand with a lot of reluctance.

“Okay.” Bucky agrees, fingers pressing briefly against Tony’s wrist, an unguarded gesture that makes something ridiculously boyish and shy bloom around the edges of Tony’s features. It makes Bucky’s throat swell with something painfully good.

In the back of his mind, Bucky can do nothing but curse the alien creature who had done this to them.

(You also, strangely enough, find yourself thankful.)

—

Tony’s I-know-someone is a Lebanese couple in their mid-forties who had come to the United States as a refugee in the nineties and now are one of the exclusive private go-to person when people like Tony Stark needs a quick fix for hair, cover-up and fashion-crisis solution; Tony had worked with them for years, and at some point had been on Pepper’s speed dial. They are discreet and provide top of the line services. They also don’t ask a lot of questions and can come at anytime, any day, if their client feels it is an emergency.

Bucky’s current state constitutes as an emergency and it takes only one phone-call to get the couple to agree; by seven in the evening, a tall lanky bald man with bright hazel eyes and curvaceous woman with a mop of striking dyed red hair is at his doorstep. There are kisses, hugs and anything-for-you-mister-Stark; whatever laughter and repertoire they exchange between the short walk from the doorstep to the open space of the living room promptly dies from Anas and Mariam’s lips when they set their gaze on the Winter Soldier, standing awkwardly by the sofa set, arms behind his back, in his jeans, t-shirt and bare feet, hair still wet from the vicious scrubbing he had clearly put his scalp through when Tony had passed on the message to him that he should shampoo his hair.

Tony can see the awkward shift in Bucky’s stance, clearly uncomfortable because Tony knows what it must look like. Here are two on-call stylists openly staring at the pardoned criminal before them. Tony can see exactly when the discomfort had turned to awkwardness, then surprise and then to a what-is-happening.

“Mister Stark.” Anas says, setting two steel cases on the ground, his French accented-English thick. “This is difficult.”

“Very difficult!” Mariam says, shaking her head. “You say this is for wedding? When is wedding?”

“Kind of next week?” Tony says, trying to go for sheepish. Anas and Mariam raise both eyebrows and Tony sighs. “Okay, it’s in five days, actually.”

The moment Mariam had come to stand behind Bucky and starts to eye him up and down is the exact moment Bucky’s eyes widen by a fraction, his big toe curling as he tries to remain calm and unmoving under her scrutiny.

“Is good built. Good shoulders, my dear, please, can you stand straight, chin up, please?” She says, patting him on a bicep; Bucky easily complies. “What suit?”

“Three piece. Valentino. Slim, satin lapel, wool and mohair blend.” Tony nods.

“Good choice. And the shoes?”

“Brogues. Prada.” Tony answers.

“Excellent. My dear, show me hand please.” Mariam says and Tony feels pressure along his jawline as he tries to not show his amusement when Bucky, without a lot of uncertainty raises his flesh hand in Mariam’s direction, and twitches just the tiniest bit when Mariam curses in Arabic. “This is not good! Not good at all! Anas!” She fires away in rapid Arabic, shaking her head, curls bouncing on her slender shoulders. “You bite nails, yes? From stress?”

“Uh…” Bucky attempts to answer, and doesn’t really get a chance to when Anas walks over from where he had began arranging a chair to do their work to take a look at his hands.

Anas shakes his head and expresses his malcontent in his melodious and rough mother tongue.

And Tony tries not to laugh.

“Mister Barnes, you have good hand but you don’t take care. I tell Mister Stark same words everytime. Superheroes and fightings -- it’s no good for hands.” Mariam shakes her head and then huffs. “But I do my best. Come, come we start. Much work to do -- oh my god, what you do to your hair!”

Anas reaches out and feels the tips of Bucky’s hair. “Do you use Tide to wash hair? Mister Stark, we cannot finish in three hours! This hair almost dead. Very dry! Very coarse! All frizz! Must do treatments! We need plenty time!”

The horror on Bucky’s face, honest to god makes laugher bubble out of Tony’s throat without his control; he clamps a fist over his lips to stop the moment a bit of manages to slip out. “Knock yourselves out; we’ve got time.”

“Mister Barnes, when we finish with you, you become super sexy fashion model, okay?”

Tony doesn’t think he’s ever seen that expression on Bucky’s face. Ever. He had to turn and hide his grin and smother more of his laughter.

Anas ushers Bucky to the single chair he had moved from the living room towards the marble flooring by the kitchen area and the couple gets to work. Friday queues in classical music and the couple converse in what sounds like gossip as they work on what they deem is a mess and a totally offensive disaster. Tony takes his perch on one end of the sofa, watching as Bucky holds a tablet in his metal arm and reads, going through a haircut, a manicure, and one hair treatment after the other. When Mariam completes her magic on his fingers, she begins the process of grooming his face, trimming the wild stubble and eyebrows to something that is more fitting for a Hollywood heart throb and then giving him, last Tony had counted, three different types of facials.

Tony watches the entire ordeal and doesn’t realize he had dozed off until he hears Mariam call his name out, soft and whispered;he comes to and realizes the couple had already cleared up, their things set and ready by the door, and Bucky looming by the edge of the hallway, rubbing at his face with his flesh hand.

When Tony looks at the time, it is a little before two in the morning.

“You guys all done?” Tony croaks, clearing his throat and rubbing th sleep from his eyes as he rolls back up to his feet.

Mariam’s grin is cocky and cheeky, a delicate dark brow raised. Her bangles rattle when she waves her hand for Bucky to come forward and when the Winter Soldier steps out of the slightly shadowy hallway, damp shirt off and balled in his fist, Tony feels his mouth go dry.

Tony can feel himself stare.

“Very good looking friend, no?” Anas grins, from where he is finishing his hands on the kitchen sink.

Tony finds it hard to swallow, finds it hard to look away from the piercing and observing clear blue eyes, as the heat starts to climb up his neck. Tony cannot deny what a fantastic job Mariam and Anas had done, has no doubt that Bucky can easily be the single most good looking man in the wedding. Even with his hunched shoulders, the slight uncertainty hanging over him like an invisible cloak, the touch of hesitancy and awards in his steps, Tony cannot deny Anas’ words.

Tony just hums in reply, not trusting his ability to form words.

“Mister Stark, you polish other hand, yes? Before, one hand okay, one hand very bad; I fix one hand, now metal hand, hmmmmm.” Mariam wiggles her fingers in a so-so gesture.

“You don’t have to. I can just wear a glove over this.” Bucky says, gesturing to his metal hand.

“Glove?” Mariam sounds outraged.

“One glove?” Anas is coming around the kitchen, trying his hands on a paper towel. “And spoil good suit, good shoes, good face?”

“And good hair! With one glove!” Mariam shakes her hand. “No glove! Mister Stark, polish okay?”

“I promise. One day before.” Tony says, giving Bucky a look and trying not to grin at the look of a surprise on his face.

“Excellent!” Mariam claps. “We go now; you two rest. We send invoice to Miss Friday.”

Tony walks them to the door, and learns that Anas had walked Bucky through what to do with his hair on the day of the wedding, that they had practiced twice; Anas praises Bucky to be a quick learner. Tony gives Mariam a hug and Anas a from and grateful handshake, thanks them for their time and for coming to his rescue, gets a always-a-challenge-and-pleasure-Mister-Stark and sends them on their way.

When Tony returns to the living room, Bucky is wearing a new shirt and is running fingers around the edge of his artfully trimmed stubble.

“They seem to know you well.” Bucky says.

“Met them in my mid-twenties at a party. I was smashed and then I had a press-conference at eight the next day and I had burned a good portion of my hair. Party trick. I was told it was awesome.” Tony shrugs. “They helped me and I looked good and perfect for Stark Industries. Still trying to understand how I did that with the hangover of the century.”

“The arm didn’t scare them.” Bucky is looking at his fingers, the words soft and barely a whisper. “Mariam gave me some moisturizer, for the skin around the socket and she didn’t even — she didn’t care.”

“Well,” Tony walks towards him to get a closer look. Up close, Tony can see the benefits of the hair and facial treatments; there is a glow to Bucky’s skin, his hair no longer a wild mess that is usually is. It falls smooth and thick till his shoulders, split ends clipped and cut flattering. “Hard to feel fear when you’re looking like that.”

“Like what?

“Like a poor sopping wet kitten in the rain.” Tony says, and tries to suppress the amusement from showing on his face at Bucky’s slightly wide eyed expression. “Cute pitiful things don’t scare people.”

The silence that falls is thick and it is in the awake of that silence that Tony realizes exactly what had rolled off his tongue. He looks away then, ignoring the need to feel the warmth of Bucky’s skin on him, the invisible claws hands under his rib cage reaching out like a needy grab for relief.

“Do I still scare you?” Bucky asks.

And it is a loaded question that makes Tony stare at the carpet fibers on the ground, heart picking up its pace. He wants to say, no, I refuse to be. I refuse to have you hold me down, to hold something you’ve done in self defense when you had stuck your fist into my chest, to hold your actions that had been forced upon you no matter how much it hurts me, because I didn’t have much, and you took my parents away. I refuse to because it’s wrong. It’s wrongwrongwrongwrong. I know that, I understand that, it god if it still doesn’t hurt.

(What you will never admit is that a part of you, the bit that is so small, the one who had wanted to be picked over the business meetings and trips when you had been five, the one who had hoped Steve would pick, would understand, would give a second glance over the shoulder to, that tiny bit of you who just did not want to be so alone, that little bit of you can probably never accept how this man, had taken the man who you had believed - in all your stupidity - would still pick you. Your envy is toxic and no fault of the Winter Soldier. The pain in your heart?its not even Steve’s fault. That’s all you. You should have known better — why the hell would anyone pick you?)

“Only when I sleep.” Tony answers, throat tight at the admission, and turns away.

“I would never hurt you.” Bucky says, and it sounds so wretchedly small and quiet in its admission that it is enough to make Tony look over at the haunted and yet so full of conviction and honesty; Tony feels rooted in the spot, held like a willl prisoner by that gaze. Bucky shrugs a bit, the gesture weak, and so, so incredibly human, nothing like the weapon he had been forcibly forged to. “Never willingly. Not you.” Bucky’s gaze flicks up for a brief second.

“You don’t know me, Barnes.” Tony shakes his head.

“I know enough.” Bucky says and swallows. “And that’s good enough for me.”

Tony fees himself take a step back, and then another as the weight of those words sink in. It’s not the first time he is hearing it.

It’s not the first time that lie has been handed to him, wrapped in earnest and honest words, sometimes love and affection.

“Steve said the same thing, once.” Tony says and god it hurts, it hurts so goddamn much. He blinks the salt he can feel forming around the corner of his eyes and shrugs, dismissing the rawness he can feel, the wound thatis about as fresh as the day Steve had walked away.. “So did Pepper, the team even, in some form or the other. And the funny thing is, it’s never true. And I’m okay with that. I understand. I really do. So you’ll forgive me and not take it personally when I say, that I don’t believe you.” Tony huffs a laugh in an attempt to clear the yawning emptiness he is reminded of, the one that he tries so hard to ignore, pretend it doesn’t exist.

“I’m not Steve.” Bucky says, frustrated. Desperate.

And Tony can feel nothing but knives in his chest, one hurt mounting on top of the other, the spell yet another reminder that whatever words that’s spilling out of Bucky’s mouth, is just a fucking lie.

(Because two years is a long time; you’ve moved on. You’re over all this. You’re okay. You’re always fucking okay!)

“Get some sleep. You don’t know what the hell you’re saying.” Tony says and takes another step back before he painfully turns around and feel his knees quake. “Good night, Barnes.”

And he walks. He walks away from the man that he knows must feel the quake in his knees, the shake in his fingers and the fine glass cutting into the inside of his lungs with each gasping breath, too.

“Stark!” Bucky says, throat gritting the syllables out. Pained. Footsteps crossing the distance between them. Tony responds by stepping into the confines of his room and pushing the door shut with force, the echoing slam cutting through the silence of the house. “Tony!”

Tony leans against the door, and flinches when he feels the fist bang against the wood once. And fuck this spell, fuck that alien, fuck Strange and his slow fucking ass, for taking his time, for prolonging this longer than necessary. Fuck Steve and his lies. Fuck the team.

(Fuck everything!)

Tony brings his forehead to his knees and curses. Curses and curses, until he feels the haze of desperation take over his consciousness. The last thing he remembers is him trying to get away from the door, crawling across the tiles and onto the rug by the bed, rolling to his side and curling in on himself, fists against his chest, an attempt to make the pain stop, just stopstopstop!

The feel of hands on his arms picking him up from the ground is like the sweetest breath. Tony sees a blur of the wild look of need in Bucky’s eyes, just as they both hit the still made bed, Bucky’s arms around him, tigt and safe, the front of his chest pressing against Tony’s back, and Tony just wants to scream. Just yell and break things.

He feels lips against the back of his head, feels the puffs of warm breath against his scalp and when Bucky says it’s okay, I got you, Tony almost believes him.

Almost.

—

When Tony wakes up, there are fifteen missed calls, ten voice messages, and a missed appointment with the florist. The sun is high up in the sky and it is already past lunch time. Tony sits up carefully from his curled position, dislodging Bucky’s arm.

This is where Tony sits on the bed, watching the soldier fast asleep, unguarded and all sharp, tense and defensive ready-to-strike lines gone. What lies on the spread of the expensive cotton sheets is a man exhausted, a man who looks at peace from the staved off nightmares of his sins. Like this, he looks like the man before the military rank, before the war, before Hydra.

Tony feels the sharp tug in his stomach. It is that tug that makes him reach out, brushing the softer and smoother hair out of Bucky’s face. The brush of his fingers makes Bucky inhale deep, eyelashes fluttering open and the bluest eyes, as blue as a clear and still spring lake meets Tony. The tug in his stomach tugs harder and Bucky — well, Bucky must feel it too.

Because Bucky reaches out to him, pressing a warm palm against Tony’s cheek and the smallest hint of concern and maybe, just maybe, there is a ghost of smile dancing around the corners of flushed lips.

And in all his vulnerability, Tony asks, “How do I move on?”

Bucky’s fingers trail up, coming around to gently press against the back of Tony’s head. “One day at a time.” Tony closes his eyes then and doesn’t resist when Bucky pulls him back on the bed, the incoming calls going unanswered and no attention given to the sun slowly changing positions in the sky.

“What if you can’t?” Tony asks, eyes remaining closed as he focuses on the sound of Bucky’s heartbeat, beating steadily.

“You can.” Bucky says, and when Tony feels his forehead press against his own, Tony doesn’t pull away. “You must.”

“You ever think it can get better?” Tony pulls back and opens his eyes to meet Bucky’s gaze.

And in the dim light of the room, the rays of the afternoon sun peeking through the black out curtains, cutting light into the darkness, Tony thinks he sees hope bloom in the depth of the Winter Soldier’s eyes, like stars reflecting on a clear lake. Bucky’s throat bobs, as he swallows and says:

“I can only imagine…”

 

TBC

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have sobbed a bit writing this.
> 
> Went through a couple of rewrites because the chapter had felt weak. In the end, had to settle. Wrote half of this on my phone.
> 
> Merry Christmas all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own Beta. I may have missed some typos and shit; this is an ever-green fic that I am continuously reviewing and editing out typos/mistakes/whatever.

Imagining had always come easy for Bucky.

As a child, he remembers imagining what it would be like if his family had lived in the suburbs, the kind that had a backyard that stretches with green as far as the eyes can see, where a glittering oval shaped pool lies waiting for anytime he and his sisters wants to go swimming, where they’d have dogs and cats and can run in any direction they wish without worrying about walls. He remembers imagining, during his schooling days, what it would be like to have _all_ his friends over and not worry about space because the house they had lived in, while being the only home he’d ever come to know, had been so, _so_ small. And as he had gotten older, he remembers imagining what it’d be lie to own fast cars, to not be judged for the clothes he had owned, to not queue for dance clubs so early, only to be turned away because his shoes doesn’t seem to match his blazer. He imagines Christmases with a tree as high as the ceiling and being able to swamp his sisters and his parents with box upon box upon _boxes_ of presents, more than they can count. And when he had put on the uniform, when he had gotten into the military, he imagines becoming a hero, imagines coming back a better man, stronger, capable, so that his sisters will never have to worry about eating another bowl of watery potato soup and a rationed portion of drying bread, so that his mother will never have to worry about working more than one job at a time, so that his family shouldn’t worry about keeping the house warm in winter, or worrying about when the lights may go out. So that, he can help Steve with his medications, take him to a better doctor, help him get _better_.

Because imagining had kept the tiny flame of hope burning just a little longer.

Imagining had helped him _survive_.

(There had been days where you would feel rage as hot as molten steel in your veins, the kind that had made you want to plant your metal fist into the faces of your handlers. There had been days where you had wanted to turn deaf ears towards words that you _loathe_ with every fiber of your being. And when your conscience had gone off Hydra’s course, little moments of it, the _almosts,_ as you call it, you imagine what the children with bullet holes between their eyes would say to you, imagine _how_ they would _look_ at you. You wonder if the infants in those cribs, the innocent lives who knew nothing of what a sordid world they have been born into would have grown up to, despite their circumstances and their potential threat to Hydra's existence. You imagine what your parents would have said, your little sisters, and _Howard_ and _Peggy_ and _DumDum_  and the boys, and most of all, _Steve_.)

And now that Bucky lives a life where he is given the privilege to make his own choices, he finds himself imagining the horror on people’s faces if they can take a page out of his head and just see _how_ he had ended lives. He imagines how his designated psychiatrist would say if he can only understand the _horror_ of being Hydra’s tool, of what it is like to see a newborns heads explode from the impact of a bullet, because those ones are always delicate, those ones are always too soft, their skulls too brittle. He wonders what they would say if they can see the haunted look of  a little girl, or a little boy, successors to names, but victims and collateral damage, just more roots that needs uprooting because well, Hydra doesn't deal with maybes or possibilities; if they're successors or born into a family that is or may be a threat to them, they go. He wonders what they would say if they could see the pleading look in the elders, people with no motion in their bodies, only a title and a name left with their already disintegrated dignities. He wonders how they'd feel if they had to slit soft throats and press fingers against a mouth to muffle the gurgling noises, how they'd feel when sticky warm red would coat their fingers, or how it is always hard to wash away dried blood.

(They never scrub off easy. You never get to the little bits under your nails or between the metal.)

He imagines what the World Security Council will say when they realize that they had a weapon far too dangerous to roam free, an error in their pardon. These imagined what-ifs had been all what Bucky had thought of at the beginning.

He had been told it is to be expected, that with time, it is to gradually change.

Bucky doesn’t know when that subtle change had begun, but he imagines it had been around the time he had started training with Ironman on the team. They had trained with simulators in the beginning, to ensure no kinks are present in their dynamics. Bucky remembers watching the suit function, watching it move, watching Tony repair it afterwards, sometimes pack it. He remembers watching him fly up into the sky, arching overhead before thrusting forward and disappearing into a fading white line. He remembers watching Tony give mission briefings, watching him gesticulate with his hands when giving a presentation on a new weapons system as a consultant – he is always a little brighter when he talks about his creations, when he uses a laser pen and breaks down components to those less tech-savvy (which is mostly everyone, in Bucky’s opinion). He is also equally as bright when he gets an intelligent question, entertains that question, and it is in those moments that Bucky thinks the distance he keeps between himself and the Avengers _blurs_ and he catches a _glimpse_ of what Steve had mentioned in fondness and warmth.

Bucky can understand why Steve had fallen in love with Tony Stark.

It is the dedication to his craft, the care and passion he _pours_ into his work that benefits not even him, but those around him. It is the intelligence and quick wit, the fact that he does his own dirty work, down to the heavy lifting and getting his hands covered in engine grease and soot. It is selflessness and love for his world, even when most of the time, the world doesn’t exactly love him back.

Even now, sitting in the corner of the living room, Tony is fiddling with a little device _again_ that he says would light up the evening sky, a eco-friendly thing that would break down to organic matter. When Bucky had asked him if it had been part of the wedding program, Tony had just shrugged and said that it’s just a little present for the bride and groom.

Bucky knows that the ‘little present’ is something Tony had been working on perfecting for _weeks_. He had seen him work on the same thing in his tablets during meetings he had no interest in participating in long before the spell.

Tony does not know how to fall because had perfected the art of standing right back up and _staying_ there, no matter how much it hurts.

(You see it when he interacts with the team, you see it when he interacts with _Steve_. Steve who had known no better at the time and not for the lack of trying - Steve had always been too stubborn, sometimes almost tunnel-visioned with things just like you remember. You see him swallow past what you can only imagine must be an ache so great, you’re not sure if you can manage the same if you had been in Tony’s shoes. You barely manage _now_. He works, he talks, he does as he is told even when he _does not_ want to, he plays the role of the perfect teammate, and you -- well, you think he shouldn't! He doesn’t owe the team a damn thing; the team had made their choice at the time, didn’t they? And even if Tony had made mistakes, he had made up for it a long time ago, didn’t he? More than he should, right?)

So imagining comes easy to Bucky; sometimes he does it without realizing that he is doing it.

(Because your imagination is your only weapon in the war against reality.)

Bucky doesn’t realize that his quiet observation that had once been fueled by curiosity and the need to understand the mechanics of one of the world most successful and busiest man had turned turned to something a little more fond, a little warm around the edges, and something that he _enjoys_. He doesn’t know when he had fully acknowledged how physically attractive Tony is. He doesn’t know when exactly he had started to realize how Tony’s nose _wrinkles_ just before he bursts out laughing. Or how when he’s clearly unimpressed about something, or disgusted about something, his lips would curl downwards to the left, just as his right eyebrow would go up the tiniest bit. Or how he hums and sometimes sing under his breath _only_ when he is typing code. Or how he looks at Rhodey and Pepper with utmost adoration, like they are the only bright thing right in the world. And when he looks at them like that, the smile that sits around the corners of his lips is the kind that softens the invisible clean cut lines of the invisible iron armor that he wears all the time. And Bucky finds himself wanting nothing more than to prolong that look on his face, the one that shows the person under all the big names, flashy speeches, billions of dollars and magazine and newspaper articles, the superheroics and genius mind that not a lot can keep up with.

It is two days before the wedding, a little after midnight and they had both shared their twelfth dinner together, while putting away the empty pizza boxes, that Bucky catches a glimpse of Tony smiling at the completed render of whatever illuminating device he had been working on for the wedding. There is a smile on his face, so small and so unguarded, that Bucky finds himself rooted on his spot by the kitchen counter, hand poised in mid-gesture in setting the stacks of empty boxes on the marble countertop, and all he can think of is, _god, I just want to pull you close and taste that smile until the morning light, I wanna hold you and keep holding you, tell you it’s okay, that I’d like to be the guy who has your back, the guy who’d pick you when it matters the most because you are worth it and god, Steve, I’m not worth losing this, why would you give up this for someone so fucked up like me? Why?_

The thought makes Bucky go _very_ still and his entire center drop to the basement level.

So still in the realization of his thoughts that he doesn’t realize Tony is staring right back at him, head tilted and concern making the space between his eyebrows wrinkle.

“You okay there, old man?” Tony asks, waving the projections away and when Bucky doesn’t answer, when he remains as rigid as a rock, Tony’s hands come to his wrist over his watch, the one that changes to a gauntlet, preparing to defend himself. “Barnes?”

Bucky blinks.

“Yeah?” Bucky says and blinks again as he fully comprehends what he had pushed Tony to do.

“You okay?” Tony asks, carefully getting to his feet. “You’re looking sick there.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says, and sets the stack of pizza boxes down with a whump, fingers gripping the edge of the counter briefly before he turns the sink on to wash his hands, anything to calm himself. When Bucky looks at his fingers, he finds that they are shaking. He balls them into fists and then picks up the stacked pizza boxes. “I’m gonna throw this out.”

Bucky doesn’t wait to see or hear what Tony had to say.

He is out into the hallway, tossing the boxes down the garbage chute and then he is taking the stairs far too quickly to step into the crisp night air, sucking lungful after lungful and yet still unable to shake what he realizes is mild panic off his chest. His fingers continue to tremble with the realization, the reason why heavens help him, he had not been able to look away, that he’s always been watching, right from the beginning the moment he had been woken up from cryostasis in Wakanda, throughout the battle that had followed, right through the hearings and trying to bring him home, up until their last team mission that had landed them in this stupid mess. He had _always_ been looking at Tony; now that he thinks about it, Bucky can’t remember a time when he had _not_ been looking at Tony.

He thinks back to the annual gala last year, when Clint had sidled up next to him and nodded in Tony’s general schmoozing direction. Clint had said, “You know you can talk to him, right?”

Bucky has given his teammate an obvious quirk of his brow in response, because of course he can, he knows _that._

The short question, seemingly harmless at the time, now takes on a different meaning.

Bucky walks a little faster, taking a detour into the small park before he breaks into a jog and then to an outright run. He runs until he breaks a sweat, gets his heart pounding, feels the heat build up under his skin as he goes around the park more times than he can count, until he is forced to slow down, breaths coming out far too quick and it had nothing to do with the run. He turns to look up at the apartment building and feels the tightness in his core that is the spell reminding him that he is too far, that he’s been away too long, that he is _homesick._

And when Bucky returns to the apartment, he finds Tony sitting on the couch and about as pale as paper, knuckles white as he _grips_ his knees, as if trying to keep himself from moving from his spot on the couch.

Bucky doesn’t think twice when he sinks to the ground in front of Tony, when he pushes himself between Tony’s knees to wrap his arms around the quake of Tony’s shoulder, feeling it slowly dissipate, just like the _ache_ in Bucky’s core. God this is a hot mess, this is unfair, almost inhumane in its cruelty. And when the shakes stop and their breaths come out slow and even, the air filling both their lungs no longer sour, Bucky doesn’t think when he pulls back to press hands against Tony’s cheeks, cupping that damning beautiful face, as apology after apology rolls past his tongue.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky says, and feels thoroughly retched and _sad_ in his admission, shaking his head and blinking the heat from his eyes. “I’m so, _so sorry._ ”

And maybe Tony can hear it, the words Bucky doesn’t say because the words remain locked in the prison of his throat. I’m sorry, he says again, only managing that much. Because how do you say _I’m sorry for existing, I’m sorry I took away not only your family, but your happiness, too. I’m sorry I got picked when it should have been you, I’m sorry that even after everything that has happened, a part of me still wonders if I had been worth **all** the mess. I’m sorry for being cause of your distance with Steve, I’m sorry he doesn’t know better. Most of all, I’m sorry that I can’t help but look at you, that I can’t do anything to make any of this **better** for you, because I want to. By god, I want to. I’m sorry I can’t stop looking at you – you’re all I want to look at._

“I know…” Tony says, pained and so _helpless_ in his defeated admission. He shrugs and tries to crack a smile, and Bucky – so help him – can’t take his eyes of those lips, watching the slight brush of tongue over the drying and cracking skin. “It is what it is, hmm?”

Bucky shakes his head, and keeps shaking it when he hears the finality in those words, the what-more-can-I-do and the I-don’t-know-what-else-to-say.

“Steve is a _fool_.” Bucky murmurs, feeling something monstrously ugly and green gnashing in his chest.

“So was I.” Tony responds quietly.

Bucky pulls away then, sitting on his heels and just helplessly stares at the expression on Tony’s face.

(What do you even say to something like that?)

\--

The wedding comes and goes, with not so much of a hiccup. There are no delayed programs, no disastrous surprises, no rainfall, no harsh winds or sudden surprises, bridal disasters or a bailing groom. None of the horror stories Bucky had read about in his quest to educate himself about basic Fancy New York Weddings101 had come to pass.

Instead, there is a small ceremony before a priest and a guest list of thirty-five people.

The ceremony takes place on a private and secluded area of Lake Erie and is nowhere near the fancy and glamour that Bucky had expected. Everything had been kept simple and extremely down to earth, with rustic wooden decorations, small lights and lanterns that from distance look like floating starlight, and chiffon drapes and crystals as a finishing touch. The pier is alight with round lanterns, hanging over the edge and casting a golden glow over the darkening waters of the lake. Bucky had stood in the corner seat of the first row, had watched two of Tony’s best friends exchange their vows before they are declared husband and wife at sunset. He had watched Tony embrace the bride after their kiss, had watched him exchange a handshake and an even tighter embrace with the groom before Rhodey and Pepper had walked down the aisle towards the erected pavilion over stone steps, the entire place lined with peach roses and green garlands.

Bucky had sat through dinner with the bride and groom as Tony’s plus-one, alongside the two bridesmaids, Pepper’s sister and maid of honor, Rhodey’s groomsmen, Vision and his cousin and also his first military tour teammate, Jonathan. Bucky had turned down the invitation to be a groomsman, had shut down that offer so hard if only because it’s not right. Rhodey had respected his wishes at the time, and had only squeezed his shoulder in understanding.

He had ended up sitting with the bride and groom anyway.

And this had made him privy to Tony’s mounting nervousness. From the appetizer all the way to the dessert, Tony had not put a single thing in his mouth save for a few sips of water. His champagne glass had remained full, and Bucky notices how he keeps rubbing his right hand over the fabric of his pants. Bucky knows that he had a speech prepared, can see the folds of a yellow notepad paper sticking out from his left inner-breast-pocket. He watches as Tony’s eyes dart left and right, how he laughs a little awkwardly at the conversation and jokes around the table, and as the minutes tick by, the more his nervousness escalates.

It gets a little out of hand when Tony jerks a little when the servers come to refill their champagne glasses, and this is where Bucky reaches under the table and presses a hand over Tony’s, stilling the rubbing of his palm on his knee. This is where Tony goes very still, and looks up from his untouched dessert to meet Bucky’s gaze, holding it there, the way he had earlier, when they had dressed and had been preparing to board the helicopter that would take them to the venue. Bucky still feels goosebumps break all over his skin whenever he remembers how Tony had _looked_ at him, all cleaned and polished, suit and brogues on and hair tied back the way Anas had shown him.

(You still remember how he had swallowed past something, how he had shuffled away with the tips of his ears a little too red. You also remember telling yourself it's nothing, it's just the spell.)

Bucky nods in Tony’s direction, gaze flicking over to where the band are preparing to change up the music.

Tony doesn’t make his speech when he is supposed to, and maybe Rhodey and Pepper had noticed his nervousness, maybe they understand that he needs time. The program changes up and instead the cake is brought out. There is cake cutting, cheesy poses, selfies taken with the younger family members and then they begin the first dance.

This is where Bucky sees Tony step out of the pavilion and stalk towards the gazebo where the ceremony had taken place. It now stands there overseeing a sea of black, shadowed and forgotten, wisps of white floating in the gentle breeze. Bucky takes a good look around the dance floor, at family and friends joining in on dancing before he slips away and follows Tony.

Tony who is standing and looking out towards the lake, hand in his pockets. He pulls out the yellowed paper that looks folded and ratty, as if he had it in his hand for a long, long time and just hands it over to Bucky, not breaking his distant stare at the lake.

Bucky unfolds it and reads it, reads the nice words, almost rehearsed, with a lot of sentences viciously scratched out.

“It’s nice.” Bucky says. “Why didn’t you read it out?”

“Because it’s not perfect. It’s not honest. It’s _generic_.” Tony grouches, more at himself rather than at Bucky.

“Well,” Bucky shrugs, crumples the piece of paper until it is a very small ball and tucks it into his pocket. “Either way, you still have to give your speech. It’s the one of the most important things at a wedding. The best man's speech.”

Tony _blinks_. And then blinks again. “Who the hell gave you that information?”

“Article on Pinterest.”

“Pinterest….”

“Yeah. I’ve never been to a wedding before.” Bucky shrugs. “Even back then, folks my parents were friends with didn’t do anything beyond a small ceremony in a church. So, I didn’t wanna mess it up for you.”

“So you read shit on _Pinterest.”_

 _“_ I googled stuff first, just so you know.” Bucky says, and feels his feathers get a little ruffled only to be taken aback by surprise by a laugh that is sudden and just a little high pitched, awkward and ridiculously _dorky_ , that it leaves Tony’s nose wrinkled and the laugh lines around his eyes deepen. For a moment, Bucky forgets that Tony had been making fun of his efforts to fit into this kind of social setting — he can’t look away, even if he tries.

“Jesus Barnes, you are full of surprises.” Tony says, huffing another laugh and then clearing his throat, sniffing and unable to wipe the unguarded smile of amusement off his lips.

“Is that a bad thing?” Bucky asks, looking at his gloveless hands - only because Tony had threatened to call Mariam - and flexing his fingers.

“No,” Tony says, soft as he casts a long look at the stretch of the lake ahead of them. “It’s not.” Tony carefully turns to face the pavilion, where the music had picked up a faster tempo and there are louder cheers emanating from the dance floor. “I should go do my speech.”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods, and reaches out last minute before Tony can walk away completely, hand grasping Tony’s wrist gently. “Hey, you’ll be fine. You love them, don’t you?”

“With everything I’ve got…” Tony admits, hesitant and shy. “They’re everything to me.”

Bucky gets it.

He really, _really does._

“All right then. Let’s get you on stage. Do you need liquid courage?” Bucky offers.

“Are you kidding? Pepper will kill me if I get on stage tipsy.” Tony huffs in what sounds like a nervous laugh, was he turns to walk towards the pavilion, and doesn’t dislodge his wrist from Bucky’s hold.

They make it to the edge stage, where Tony asks the catering staff to circulate glasses of rose wine, and notifies the band and DJ to give him a moment. When Bucky sees that all the guests had their rose wine in hand, he nods towards Tony who then foregoes the stage and opts to stand in front of it instead, right by the crowd on the dance floor.

“I’m sure all of you can hear me. I’m sure most of you know me, I’m almost always featured on Times magazine, and if not then you’ve been living under a rock, which yay, go you.” Tony chuckles along with the room, ducking his head and sucking a visibly deep breath, teeth worrying over his lower lip. “So I had a speech written, very nice, I’m told by my plus-one over there. Who also has it in his pocket after he crumpled it into a pea-sized ball. He said it was very generic.”

Bucky feels his eyes widen when the _entire_ room _turns_ to look at _him_ ; it takes a strength he hadn’t known he had possessed to not _bolt_ from a seemingly harmless social gathering. “I did not…” Bucky says almost lamely, and when he catches the smile peeking from corners of Tony’s lips, he frowns without malice and crosses his arms. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Rhodey turn a raised eyebrow in his direction and Pepper blink in Tony’s direction, familiarity and dare he say, recognition crossing their features.

“He’s right. It was me. I felt the speech was too generic, too nice, too formal and to be honest, I didn’t feel it was right enough considering how well I know the bride and groom. So I’m going to wing it and hope I don’t embarrass the bride, who is already having the Oh-No face, gotcha, Pep.” Tony’s grin is wide, and amused laughter ripple through the room. “But no seriously, all jokes aside, this is the part where I struggled with this speech. As the best man, I’m supposed to focus on the groom, tell everyone here why he’s the best etcetera, etcetera. Which I will, in a moment. But let’s set a little ground work and make a few things very clear first.

“Being friends with _me_ is not easy. Most of you may or may not know how I grew up too fast, genius at four, done with high-school with multiple scholarship offers before kids my actual age had even finished middle school. I met Rhodey when I was almost-seventeen at MIT. He was on his final year and I was in three of his classes wrapping up thesis work on robotics. That year, I had already finished two of my PHD’s, was working on my third while taking robotics as a side thing because well, I had nothing to do, too young to intern or work or whatever, because when you’re in a world of almost-adults, no one wants to hang out or take a chance with a  _child_ _._ But not Rhodey. If I had to pinpoint the exact moment Rhodey found himself stuck with me, it would be the day I met him and found out that he is to be my partner for the duration of the semester. I told him, _you don’t have to get stuck with me; just tell the professor I’m not cooperating, he’ll assign you someone else._

“To which, he responded with a shrug and said, _Nah, I’m good. Listen, I’m kinda’ starving. You wanna continue talking about this thing elsewhere? I’ve got pizza coupons and it’s all you can eat pizza for about eight bucks._ ”

The room erupts into chuckles, but Bucky notices the wistful and nostalgic expression on Rhodey’s face, the expression gentle.

“It was the first time I’ve learned about pizza coupons and all you can eat pizza for eight bucks -- eight damn bucks, can you believe it?” The laughter come again, louder and more amused. “It was also first time I ever hanged-out with someone. First time I’ve been invited to _anything,_ really. I wasn’t exactly very popular in any environment I was in. Too intimidating, too young, too rich, too smart, too _everything_. But Rhodey did something that no ever has; he welcomed me into his life. And when I had no family, he allowed me to be a part of his. For as long as I can remember, Rhodey had given me more than he can and in return, had taken pride in less than what he needs from _me_. Like I said, I’m not an easy friend to have.

“And these guys that I’m about to show you, were also not the easiest teammates to have.” Tony pulls his phone out and taps the screen, blowing out the projection for people to see.

Rhodey’s teammates from his tours, difficult people Rhodey had to worked with, people he had made an impact on, all speak about their personal experiences with Colonel James Rhodes. They are short messages from men and women of all ages, and almost all walks of life. They say the same thing: Rhodey had taken a chance on them when no one else would have, that they are alive now because of him.

When the playback concludes, Bucky spies a few people dabbing their eyes with a napkin, Pepper doing the same.

“Rhodey is many things to a lot of you: Hero, War Machine, Colonel, friend, brother, teammate, and colleague. To me, he's more than all of _that_. He’s the guy who took a chance on someone who everyone – the entire _world,_ even – had thought of nothing more as means to something bigger or a means to an end. He is the best man I’ve had the privilege of knowing, of working with and not a day goes by where I don’t feel _honor_ in being called his best friend. I’ve met and worked with Gods, aliens and Legends, heroes from all walks and eras. And I can tell you with confidence and without a doubt that he is also the bravest man I know. You see, his bravery comes from courage and kindness, from _compassion_ – three things that I’ve come to realize he possess in his thumb alone that most of us will possess over a life time. And I never understood what bravery or any of that can even mean until _you,_ buddy.”

Tony pauses as he holds Rhodey's gaze for a moment and then ducks his head; when Tony looks back up there is a love so bright, a joy so _great_ that Bucky feels his breath catch in his throat. To be on the other end of that kind of love, that kind of dedication, is something Bucky no doubts is to be treasured. Here, he sees Tony open up himself, allows the world a glimpse of just how delicate and soft he truly is under all the armor he never seems to take off.

Rhodey sees it too, for he, like Pepper is just as stunned, flush high on their cheeks and eyes watering with an emotion neither of them can contain anymore.

“They don’t teach friendships in school; they don’t teach compassion, or understanding or how to take chances. There is no manual for any of that anywhere, so buddy, a huge reason as to why I’m even standing right here, a good chunk of who I am right now, is because of _you_. And I wouldn't a change a damn thing. So, my darling Pepper, my confidant, my savior in many shapes and form, my _dearest friend_ , I can promise you, with everything that I have and everything that I am, that you will know no doubt, no regret, and you will spend the rest of your life knowing what _love_ is with this man. He will _always_ have your back. And when you think you can’t handle the world anymore, when you doubt yourself, when you do not know what to do, I _know_ him, he’s got you covered. _Always_. _No matter what._ I am the happiest man here tonight. I am the most privileged man on earth to have both of you as a part of my life, to be able to stand here on your special day and be a part of all this with you. I love you both so, _so_  much and I wish you _all_ the happiness in the world.” Tony clears his throat, blinks once and raises his glass; just like that, the armor is back up and he _grins_. “To James and Pepper.”

The room echoes the words and there is loud cheering. Bucky watches with what he feels is like a baseball in his throat when Rhodey and Pepper crosses the space between themselves and Tony and throws arms around him, kissing his cheeks. Bucky watches as Tony offers Rhodey a napkin from his pocket, fist pumps and says something to Pepper that makes her _laugh_ through her own tears. Bucky watches all this with something so beautifully warm in his chest, and just around the edges of it, something a little bitter, a little ugly, and a little envious.

With the speech done, it feels a little like watching the weight of the world shift and slip down the sides of Tony’s shoulders, toppling to the ground with a resonating thud. The hardest part what Tony had been most afraid of is done. Bucky watches as the crowd joins in on congratulating the couple, watches as Tony is pushed back bit by bit to the side of the room, watches as the noise begins to pick up and the band resumes its music. Bucky watches in what feels like a daze as Tony walks around and out of the pavilion, stepping into the cool spring night air, just as the lanterns – it is what Tony had called them – is released and first few golden orbs begins to dot and sky. They float, _thousands_ of them, bit by bit, going higher and higher until the entire lake is bright and illuminated with orbs of floating gold. Bucky hears the first cry of _look_ , watches as the celebration lulls to a stop and footsteps brush against stone and grass, a _hush_ falling among the guests as all eyes turn to the sky.

Somewhere under the abandoned gazebo, Bucky finds Tony looking out at the floating lanterns, a glass of something stiff in his hand, untouched. Bucky watches the play of golden lights over long lashes, over the sheen of silk of Tony’s bow-tie and lapel. He watches the shadow shift and dance under his jaw, watches the slack smile around the corners of his lips. Bucky thinks, amidst the floating lights gleaming over the lake and surrounding greenery, that like this, in all his silence, in all his solitude with nothing but the dissipating warmth of liquor, Tony is _beautiful_.

And still so incredibly alone.

(You deserve the world; you deserve everything.)

There is no enforced pull.

There is no hesitance.

Not when Bucky curls his fingers around the curve of Tony’s shoulder, not when he turns him around gently, or when Tony goes with the motions of the gesture. There is nothing between them but the air they breathe, the warmth between their bodies and the gentle breeze blowing across the lake. There is nothing Bucky can make himself care for in that moment, something that feels incredibly organic, and _right_ , when he carefully leans over and presses his lips against Tony’s.

It’s short and warm and lingering and god, so, _so_   _sweet_.

Tony doesn’t push him away, nor does he pull back or look away.

And when Bucky pulls his gaze away from parted and soft lips to _drown_ in the molten amber depths, when he sees himself reflected in those eyes, their foreheads pressed together, even when the lanterns dissolve into a multitude of exploding fireworks, even amidst the echoing gasps and cheers of the guests a few feet away from them, _nothing_ can make Bucky tear his gaze away.

(The funny thing is, you’re not sure if it’s the spell making you feel this, _do this_ , or if it’s all just you.)

 

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I genuinely struggled with this chapter and had a couple of rewrites. One of the biggest rewrites was the scene before the wedding and I had to scrap out a huge ass verbal fight that ugh. Well, I saved it in case I can make use of it later.
> 
> Anyway, also the speech. Wedding speeches are hard. WTF. UGH.
> 
> Anyway, possibly next chapter is last and if it exceeds my 7k limit per chapter, then the chapter after that should be a wrap up.
> 
> Or so I hope. IDEK.
> 
>  
> 
> **HAPPY NEW YEAR ALL - THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMMENTS AND READINGS AND YOU'RE ALL GREAT XOXO**
> 
>  
> 
> PS: Possible Steve shenanigans and closure next chappie. MAYBE. ~~IDEK. LIKE FOR FUCK'S SAKE THE BREAK UP NEEDED TO HAPPEN LIKE 200 YEARS AGO GOD~~


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own Beta. I may have missed some typos and shit; this is an ever-green fic that I am continuously reviewing and editing out typos/mistakes/whatever.

Tony remembers being told some time ago, that it is an absolute human certainty that no one can know his own beauty, or perceive a sense of his own worth until it has been reflected back to him in the mirror of another loving, caring human being.

Tony had felt that once upon a time ago, that in which two years almost feels like a lifetime ago. Two years before Thanos, before Siberia, before the Accords – Tony barely recognizes the person he had been then: jaded but still optimistic in some regard, closed off but not entirely, a very, very small part of his heart still visible to the public, even when the glow had long been gone. A lifetime ago, even if it had been in secret, Tony had felt young, had felt all the good in the world within the walls devoid of prying eyes, because in the dark, he had felt the warmth of _home_ and affection wrap around him like a security blanket. Steve had loved him; Tony knows this without a shred of doubt. He had felt it in Steve’s touch, had tasted what promises and the possibility of even forever had felt like. Pepper had felt like forever too, but Steve – by god, Steve had _embodied_ that.

And Tony had fallen so, _so hard_.

Steve had believed his fears, had understood just how deep the scars of betrayal go, had held him through the night after Ultron, and sometimes, when it had gotten so bad, Steve would _shake_ him out of the nightmare, the ones where Tony thinks that he is Ultron, is all the bad parts of him gone wild and out, because, well, isn’t he?

There had been nothing that Tony hadn’t eventually shared with Steve, affection starved, family starved, everything-starved that he had been at the time. Because if anything, being with Steve had made Tony feel like the emptiness in his soul that he had never been able to shake off, not even with Pepper, had been filled. Steve knows what a superhero goes through, Steve knows where the fire to protect the world comes from, how deep it goes, how bright it burns, because Steve feels it too. Tony knows this.  

(He made you see how worthy you are, he made you see the best parts of yourself that you didn’t even know existed.)

And yet.

And yet…

Tony remembers nights after Siberia, nights when he had _needed_ Steve the most, nights when he had picked up the phone and _almost_ dialled him, had almost admitted to his weakness that he had sworn he would never again expose himself the way he had with Steve to _anyone,_ not even Rhodey, the moment he had heard the resonating clang of the shield on the bunker’s concrete. Tony had sworn to himself that he would rather die than even _dare_ be as vulnerable as he had foolishly allowed himself to be with what he can easily call had been the best time of his life. Steve had trusted him too, had told him stories of himself growing up, about not being enough, about being too small that even after the serum, he still thinks he is that small, that insignificant. Tony remembers heading home one day from an official meeting, when Steve had asked him if it’s okay to take a detour from their usual route, and how they had spent the rest of the night driving through old alleys, Steve pointing out where he had gotten beaten up, how old he had been and _why._

Tony remembers looking at Steve that night, feeling the world dull around him, taking in Steve’s carefully hidden grief of losing the world he had only ever known. Steve’s voice hadn’t been the steadiest then and for a moment, Tony sees past the bulk, the muscle and strength. In that short moment, he had seen Steve Rogers for who he really is, the little guy who just wants to do right by the world, to save the _only_ world he knows. Steve had made love to him that night, achingly and wonderfully slow, had held him like he had been the single thing keeping his head together in a world that he barely recognizes anymore. Tony can’t remember a day when he had woken up before Steve, because Steve always watches him sleep, Steve is always tracing the lines around the corners of his eyes, like he’s counting the years Tony had left. It is in the morning light, with words unsaid, for just a brief few seconds, that Tony can _see_ and _hear_ the words Steve never says. The one that says, _I’m going to outlive you, I’m going to watch you crumple like Peggy, and one day, you won’t remember this, you won’t remember us, and I’ll carry your casket on my shoulder, put you in the ground and I wouldn’t know what to do then._

It had felt like goodbye, sometimes, those very precious and so, so vulnerable seconds.

Tony had understood it.

Still does.

Which is why the betrayal, god it had hurt.

(You’re still hurting, every time you so much as look at him, because despite your weakness, you know that deep down, you’re never going to feel forever, or get a shot at said forever. You’re never going to feel the warmth of home, of security, of so much trust, the kind you feel when you find that missing part of you in another person. You will never again feel his smile in your kisses, against the scars on your skin, or how he’d press them on your fingertips. You will never again wake up to another morning where he is the first thing you see, and the last before you close your eyes at night. Never again, even if you try, no matter how you try.)

And the funny thing is about it all is that no matter how much Tony had tried, he had not been able to _hate_ Steve. Anger and bitterness is easy, they’re like counting one, two, three. But hate?

(How can you hate someone who is a part of you and you _know_ that you are also a part of him? That his only fault here, in all this, had been his weakness, his beliefs that you so dearly love and still fight for, because well, don’t you believe it too? How can you hate someone when you know that deep down the patriotic blue and reds and silver stars, the shield, the name, the glory, the _legend,_ is just a _man_?)

No.

Tony doesn’t think he can ever hate Steve.

But he can remain angry. He can dig at wounds for as long as the hurt continues to burn like salted wounds under his skin. He can live with himself and re-learn how to be alone, how to live with the rawness and hope that in his last hours, Tony can learn forgiveness and actually say, _I love you and I forgive you._

That had been the plan.

At least that’s what he had thought.

Until Bucky had kissed him.

Tony can’t recall what had transpired between the lanterns display and fireworks and the trip back to his apartment. Throughout the ride, Tony had sat in his seat staring at the lights and suburbs change beyond the glass, had watched himself step out of the helicopter with Bucky in his shadow, as they cross the rooftop landing pad into the apartment entrance. Tony had lived with the pain of losing Steve for two years but still feels like _decades_ , had gotten used to the numbness, the feeling of having  jagged ice line his lungs. He had gotten good at _working_ with Steve while keeping his mouth shut, had done everything that Captain America can expect from a teammate and had kept everything else away from Steve Rogers.

He had been good. He had himself convinced that he can actually dance this entire foxtrot with a smile and still come out on top.

And it had taken _one_ kiss, one no more than a five second long lingering kiss to drive the continuously stormy mess in Tony’s chest to a screeching halt and _hush_.

Stepping into the apartment and slipping his suit jacket off, Tony finds himself doubting everything he had worked so hard for, and he can’t blame anyone but himself and this god forsaken spell.

(That isn’t very true and deep down you know it. You had watched him respect your boundaries from the beginning, had watched him compartmentalize around you and accommodate you, had watched him do nothing but make sure he had your back during battles and trainings. You had watched a man drag his guilt around him and still face you, still work with you, still respect the conditions of his pardon, still try so, _so goddamn har_ , that you remember feeling genuinely impressed with his perseverance. You had watched the Winter Soldier try to pick himself up and _earn_ his place in the world, if not for himself, then for the people around him. You watch him respect you.

And a part of you had always felt a little moved by that.)

It had to be the spell, right?

(Right?!)

Tony drops his jacket over the sofa armrest, dress shoes clicking against the marble floors as he crosses the space between the living room and liquor cabinet. Like every time he feels like he’s walking on air, like every time he feels the noise and thoughts and _emotion_ gets too loud in his head, Tony pours himself a stiff drink, almost full to the brim and takes that all down in one thirsty gulp. He had not had anything all day, had stubbornly refused _anything_ to drink right to the end even after the speech, even after he had gotten himself something from the bar that had only gone ignored and too disgusting warm to drink after. He knows drinking this much on an empty stomach is a disaster waiting to happen.

Steve would have been irritated, would have picked a fight with him, even, if he had been around.

And yet Bucky simply stands there, his jacket hanging over his arm, both hands in his pockets and looking so devilishly handsome, suit rumpled by the event’s commute and the entire ordeal. Tony finds himself staring at him quietly, asking a million questions he isn’t aware he is asking and likely will never be able to give a voice to.

“I get it, you know? Bucky says, slow and unsure, looking downright _ashamed_ of himself as he casts a glance at his shoes, remaining very still, even when every line in his body is pulled taut and ready to snap from the coiled tension. “Why Steve fell in love with you. Why he still loves you. Why he’ll never stop loving you. _How can_ _he_?” Bucky says, and huffs a bit of a self-depreciating laugh that sounds about as hollow as the deafening silence that seems to blanket over Tony’s mind.

“We’ve both made our choices clear.” Tony says, and ducks his head, pouring another glass. “I know you’re his friend, his brother in everything but blood, and if this is your way of trying to bridge the gap between us? To rekindle the oh-so-secret-love that you claim still _burns_ in the good Captain’s heart after _you_ just fucking _kissed me_ –“

“It’s not.”

The glass in Tony’s hand hurls across the across the room, smashing into spray of sharp crystal and gold liquid against the floor and wall.

“ _Then what is the point of saying this?”_ Tony says, with all the rage and all the hurt that remains raw even after _years_ , and when he receives no verbal answer, when Bucky simply stares at him almost helplessly, a small ghost of a self-depreciating smile lingering on the Soldier’s lips, one that looks like surrender and uncertainty and even more shame, Tony hears himself laughing, hollow and absolutely breathless.

Bucky stands there, waiting and watching as Tony loses agency of his own control and press a hand to his chest as he shakes his head over and over again, as if denying the warmth lingering there are the words Bucky isn’t saying, at the fact that he hasn’t felt this _alive_ for _years_ , at the fact that hope is just as sweet as it had been when Steve had made him _believe_.

“Tomorrow, you will be in the compound, and you will train with others and be on active duty for the next two weeks unless Strange comes in with news.” Bucky says, voice unwavering, even as his eyes darkens with something that Tony isn’t able to understand, his stance strengthening like he’s preparing for a fight he knows he’ll never win. “I am going to let Steve know what happened, what I’ve _done –“_

“ _For fuck’s sake –“_

“— _that I would do it again._ ”

This is where Tony blinks the stunned hit of those words that feels like a solid punch. This is where he _stares_ at James Buchanan Barnes, standing there, and swallowing past something in his throat that had everything to do with the tension that is trying to keep whatever words he’s trying to force out a prisoner in his throat.

This is where Tony takes a step back and _stares some more_ , where his heart starts to _gallop_ under his ribcage, where hope tastes as sweet as maple syrup at the tip of his tongue.

“What?” Tony asks, _breathless._

“I would do it again.” Bucky looks away then. “Stark, you’re all I think about.” He shrugs. “You’re all I _want_ to think about.” He says, bringing a hand up to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. “And the worst part is, I don’t want to _stop._ I _like_ this, being around you, watching you work, watching you _care_ and _love_ your friends – _Jesus fucking Christ_ .” His metal hand swipes down the length of his face and he swallows once more, shaking his head. “I can’t get you out of my head and I don’t think I can. Not after _this_.”

“I’d measure my next few words very carefully, if I were you, Barnes. Who do you think you’re trying to fool here? Don’t you think it’s just the spell making you say shit that you don’t mean?” Tony slams his palm down when he sees Bucky opens his mouth to argue, causing a sharp noise to reverberate in the empty apartment. “And even if it _wasn’t,_  how much of a fool do you think I am that I’d believe you? Why would you want to be a part of my life, you’ve _seen it_! You’ve lived with me for two whole weeks and you’re honest to everything holy trying to _tell me_ that you want any part of _this?_ Because Steve sure as hell fucking didn’t!”

“I am _not_ Steve.” Bucky warns.

“ **Bullshit! You’re exactly like him!** I don’t know which of the two of you is worst, the one that stays silent or the one that actually admits to shit!”

Tony doesn’t realize how loud he’s shouting, or how the words come out grated against his throat, or how suddenly the distance between himself and Bucky is gone and he’s against the kitchen counter, with hands boxing him in between said counter and the taller, stronger and leaner frame that Tony _knows_ he can never win against without his armor. The breath is knocked out of his lungs, anger hot in his veins, burning just as bright as the irrational emotion that he sees _blazing_ in the Soldier’s eyes. Tony sees himself reflected in depths of the blown pupils, all black, open and baring the attraction and need and _want_ that Tony knows he too, wants to feel again, craves for, _needs._

And maybe it’s the day’s occasion, maybe it’s him being alone for too long, maybe it’s him realizing how lonely he truly is without Steve, and before that, without Pepper, and before that without Jarvis and Anna and Maria and even fucking Howard, to some degree.

Maybe it’s the spell.

Maybe it’s his anger and hurt and all that numbness that is just choking him from the inside out and he is powerless to claw at the suffocating feeling in his throat.

Tony pushes back against the sudden shove, plants both his hands against the soldier’s shoulders and _shoves_ back.

“If you’re not Steve, then _prove it_.” Tony challenges.

And Bucky cants his head to side and _shoves_ their mouths together, their teeth clacking as his tongue slips past the muffle that _rips_ past Tony’s throat, tracing the seam of his lips once, before Tony feels teeth press against the curve of his lower lip, a sharp press of teeth that hurts in its slow and mounting burn. It forces a keening noise from the depth of Tony’s stomach, because he can’t remember the last time he’s felt this grounded in years, can’t remember the last time he’s felt heat like _this_ course through his veins, or want this strong that he can barely form the syllables of Bucky’s surname when Bucky pulls his mouth off Tony’s with a breathless gasp only to trace a hot line from under Tony’s ear down to the curve of his throat. Tony feels his eyes scrunch shut, feel his knees _almost_ buckle under him until Bucky all but lifts him off the floor and mounts him up on the kitchen counter, fingers dragging down the silky fabric of his shirt and tearing through it. Tony hears the fabric come away with ease, hears the buttons pop and ricochet all over the kitchen as Bucky’s hot tongue traces the line of his throat and the jut of his collarbone. Tony feels himself stare _blindly_ at the ceiling, feels the _pound_ of his heart escalate until he is so breathless and heady that he can only stare dazedly at Bucky when he suddenly _stops_ and simply stares at Tony like he’s committed the crime of the century.

“I can’t.” Bucky says, shaking his head, cheeks flushed and frustration thick in his voice, as he closes his eyes and sucks in measured breath after measured breath. “ _I can’t_.”

“Can’t or _won’t_?” Tony asks.

“I _won’t_.” Bucky says, swallowing and shaking his head. “Not like this. Not with this spell.”

Tony feels his stomach _turn_ from the alcohol, feels himself go sick at the realization of what those words can even _mean_ . Tony doesn’t even move when Bucky presses his flesh hand against his cheek, when he brushes the curve of his chin with a thumb and leans forward to kiss him slow, and gentle, careful and tentative, almost shy and unsure that it reminds Tony of everything he truly and deeply _needs_ in his life.

And everything he will _never_ have.

When Bucky pulls away, and Tony feels the absence, even with Bucky’s breath but mere inches before him, he smiles sardonically and says, “Then get the _fuck_ off me.”

Bucky does.

Tony does the only think he can do; he walks away and _stays_ away.

(You are no longer sure if it is the spell fueling your need and attraction or if it’s all you.)

\--

The decision to pointedly _not_ look at Bucky comes firm and resolute the moment the sun cracks over the horizon. Tony doesn’t know how long he had stayed up drinking in his room, but it must have been a lot if he had not felt the pull of the spell all night. He wakes up to find himself tucked into bed and the mess on the floor that he knows he had made the night before gone and cleaned up.

They do not speak the rest of the morning because as far as Tony is concerned, there is nothing to say to each other. As far as Tony is concerned, he shouldn’t put stalk or substance into _any_ of Bucky’s words or actions simply because he knows it’s the spell’s bewitching enchantment that had turned them to blind fools.

So when they arrive at the compound and they are welcomed by the team, Tony resolutely keeps his big boy pants on and smiles like there is not a damn thing _wrong_ in the world. He goes through the motions of training, of debriefing for missed missions and talks of new recruits, of what they had missed that may be crucial to upcoming assignments and everything else he’s gotten good at playing at. And if Tony notices how Steve’s demeanor had suddenly changed by the fourth day, he pretends not to notice, even when there is obvious tension between the Brooklyn Boys.

Strange’s message comes at a time where Tony had needed it the most. It had been training day and training pairs are always run through a random algorithm and of course, as fate wont to do, he gets the one person he doesn’t want to have any physical contact with.

Bucky throws the entire weight of the armor over his shoulder, pinning Tony down with his boot and all of his bastardized Super Soldier strength. Tony reacts by flipping them over, pushing the Soldier down, holding him down only to feel his knee brace against the armor’s abdomen as Tony is flipped over again. Tony hits the ground with a whomp, feels his head spin a little bit just as the incoming call flashes in his hud. Tony taps out of their sparring session, something so uncharacteristic of him that it takes a moment to register with Bucky. It takes another firm tsp before Bucky is taking several steps back, putting so much distance between them so suddenly that it gives the others who are sparring in different areas of the training room reason to pause.

Tony takes the call, standing still when he gets on his feet and listens to Strange babble out a string of nonsense, something about incomplete spells, disruptions and whatever else that doesn’t quite register until Tony finds himself snapping under the hud, until Strange asks him to meet him in The Office.

The words Strange, news and Office leaves his mouth and before he knows it, he’s got the Brooklyn Boys hot on his tail as he stalks out of the training room into The Office, where he finds Strange already sitting on one of the chairs, an ankle propped on his knee and sipping on a cup of tea.

“Strange, you’re back. You got anything?” Steve asks, breaking the ice as he shuts the door behind him.

“Yes, believe it or not. It took me a little too long to track down a proper translator but you’ll be glad to know that the spell is not complete, therefore the effects are not permanent. And if my calculations are correct, the spell should have dissolved about five days ago.”

Tony feels his chest _seize_ under his ribcage, feels himself choke on air he can’t _breathe._

“Five days ago?” Bucky repeats.

“Are you sure? Not four days ago? Not three days ago? Not yesterday?” Tony grinds out, as he activates the suit release and steps out of it, the color gone from his face. He can feel the twitch in his left eye, can feel the shake in his hands, can hear the tinge of hysteria in his voice. “I mean this isn’t exactly science but _what_ were your parameters again? When you reached this five day conclusion?”

Strange gives him a pointed look. “The effects would have been immediate and manifested physically. Did you actually remain within the same space the _entire_ time? You would have _felt_ it.” Strange says and when Tony turns to look at the equally stricken look on Bucky’s face, the moment their eyes lock, Tony feels like the ground had disappeared from under him. He feels the distress morph to something uglier, something that feels like a ticking bomb and this time, Tony is sure he won’t be able to difuse it. “ _Oh_ …” Strange says.

And it is that _oh_ that breaks the camel’s back.

“There has to be a mistake.” Tony says, as he _tears_ his gaze off Bucky, catching the equally stricken look on Steve’s pallid features. “Stephen, please check _again_.”

“I have, Tony.”

“ _Then do it one more time!”_ Tony bites out, begging, and Strange can only _stare_ at him with so much _pity_ before he shakes his head and disappears behind a portal, wordless and leaving Tony to _stew_ and _broil_ in the wake of his rage because five days ago had been the night before Rhodey’s wedding.. Five days ago had been the night they had that pizza dinner, when Bucky had gone for his impromptu run. Five days ago, Tony had still felt the _pull_.

The pull had been there too, when Bucky had kissed him under the lantern lit sky, right? The pull had been there too, when Bucky had pushed him against the kitchen counter, when he had _devoured_ him like a man starved, when he had held him and said that he couldn’t, not like this, right?

Tony _looks_ at Bucky, _looks_ at him and _pleads_ for him to say something, to contradict everything or _anything_ that Strange had just thrown at their faces.

Nothing comes.

Instead there is that look again on Bucky’s face, determination, the I’m-sticking-to-my-guns kind of look, the kind that reminds Tony of that night when Bucky had straightened his back and had said, _I’d do it again_.

Bucky turns around and leaves quietly, shoulders slumping as he wordlessly shuts the door behind him.

Tony feels like he’s been punched right in the chest, and for a moment, he feels his hand come up to where the arc reactor had been, feeling the uneven and unnatural smoothness under the fabric of his shirt, as he turns around and feels for a chair.

“It’s not his fault.” Steve begins, slowly and cautious.

Tony had only needed the tiniest of sparks to ignite. “Oh, _fuck off_ , _Rogers_!”

“You cannot be angry at him. This was out of his control, just as much as it was out of yours. Trying to be angry now is not gonna change a damn thing and you know it.” Steve says, planting himself between Tony and door. “Look --

“So who can I angry with, then?” Tony asks. “Other than myself, because let me tell you that tune is getting really fucking _old!_ ”

“Tony, it isn’t your fault.” Steve takes a step forward.

“Well, in hindsight, I suppose this should make you oh so happy~ I finally got to spend some great quality time with your BFF and got to know him better, got to see what a true swell guy he is under all the icy exterior. You get _everything_ you ever wanted; Tony Stark seeing the Winter Soldier’s human side.”

“ _Not the way it happened, Jesus, Tony, what do you take me for?”_ Steve snaps, holding his hand out. “ _Do you think so little of me that I would wish something like this upon you? That I would hope that you’d have no agency, no control over the circumstances surrounding_ **_you_ ** _?_ **_Is that what you really think of me_ ** _?_ ”

“Steve,” Tony blinks and swallows, and before he can put a stop to it, the words roll past his tongue with a tremble he had no control over.. “I thought the world of you.” The words make Steve recoil, taken aback and anger and temper sliced cleanly in half. “I hid nothing from you. And whatever we had, however small and hidden, they were the best days of _my life_. One day you were there and the next you weren’t.”

“God, Tony --”

“I mean did you even _think of me_ ? When you fucked off and left me? Did I even cross your mind _at all_ ?” Tony asks and when Steve doesn’t answer, when he keeps his head ducked and crosses his arms across his chest, when Steve curls in on himself, when he turns into that goddamn shell, the kind that Tony always had the coax him out of when things got hard or difficult or complicated, Tony feels his voice rise. “ _Answer me, damnit!_ ”

“Everyday.” Steve whispers, sounding so wretchedly small. Tony can feel the entire stretch of the ocean behind his eyelids, can feel the phantom seizing of his lungs as he brings a hand to his mouth to cover it  “Tony, I have never stopped loving you. Us failing? That’s not on you. That’s all on me. There’s not a day that has gone by where I don’t think of what I could done different, what I could have done that wouldn’t result in me losing you the way I did.”

Tony jerks his chin up and tastes the bitterness at the tip of his tongue. “And would you have done it differently?”

“I would have found a way to not lose either of you. I would have tried to be braver.” Steve admits and stares at his hands. “Tony, I will always love you. All I’ve ever wanted for you was to be happy. And I hurt you. I can wish and hope that you’d forgive me, that you’d come back to me, that you’d take me back, but I know you, Tony. _I know you_ . It’ll never be the same. This kind of thing is not something you’ll bounce back up from. And that’s all on me. _I hurt you so bad_. Now I gotta live with that.”

The sound that leaves Tony’s mouth is small, broken and filled with grief. The chair squeaks a bit when Tony drops his weight on hit suddenly, when he shakes his head and brings the heel of his palms against his eye sockets. He curses Steve, curses and _curses_ , call hims a fool, a goddamn idiot, a horrible man, and everything else he can think of as the grief he should have processed _years_ ago come rising to the surface. He feels his hands shake, feels his voice shake with the curses, and when he feels Steve kneel in front of him, when feels those familiar and wonderfully warm hands gently pry his hands off his face, Tony finds himself staring at the sea of wonderous blue-green, at the salt gathering around the corners of Steve’s eyes, glistening under the afternoon light and glow of the halogen ceiling lights, as crystal clear as the grief and heartbreak and _regret_ that weighs down over Steve’s handsome face.

“Don’t be mad at him. It isn’t his fault that he’s in love with you.” Steve says, gentle.

“How can you even _say_ that?” Tony says, incredulous at the revelation.

“Because he looks at you the way you once looked at me…” Steve says and the smile that tugs up on his lips is so, _so_ sad that Tony can feel his resolve crumble. “And I know a part of you must feel something for him to. I saw it on your face today. So no matter what happens, no matter what you choose to do, I will _always_ love you. I don’t know how _not to_.”

Tony says nothing.

(What do you say to something like this?)

Not even when Steve holds onto his hands so tight, not even when Steve brings his hand to his lips as he presses a lingering kiss over his knuckles, closing his eyes as the tears slide down his cheeks. The kiss lingers and feels like goodbye and maybe it’s for the best, maybe it’s better they part ways. Tony knows that there is no way their relationship would go back to what it had been, even if they _try_. This kind of betrayal goes far too deep, would always hang over their heads like a shadow. The guilt would gnaw at Steve, would distract him and Tony knows he would never stop remembering it.

(You’ll never heal from this, just like how you didn’t fully heal from Obadiah.)

Steve releases his hands and stands up to leave the room, without another look over his shoulder as the door slides shut with a soft click.

Tony wishes he can say that he feels better, that the closure had helped.

He can’t.  


TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, I dunno.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am my own Beta. I may have missed some typos and shit; this is an ever-green fic that I am continuously reviewing and editing out typos/mistakes/whatever.

Tony knows that his exhaustion had fueled a desperation so intense when during an emergency assignment to confirm and eliminate a HYDRA base, he had made the fatal and embarrassingly rookie mistake of getting hit by a bomb blast when he should have been more alert to be able to just _bank_ a sharp darn right and avoid it.  _Easily._

The blast had contained contaminating astringents that the suit’s first layer of coating gets stripped off, causing an onset of some sort of chemically induced reaction that had the suit’s systems compromised and the joints stiffening up when parts of the metal had begun to _rust_.

Tony briefly remembers seeing the evening stars ahead of him, as he arcs away from said blast ungracefully, limbs all over the place, the communication line echoing with his team’s shouts for him to respond, and lands with a sharp bouncing thud before he skids to a halt on the forest floor. He somehow had the sense to just miraculously disengage the suit and step out of it, activating the decontaminating protocols. He watches, as he crawls backwards on his ass, dirty and soot all over him as the suit releases jets of white stream, the red and gold and rust disappearing under a smoke of white. Tony barely gets another second before _rocks_ with the impact of the HYDRA base exploding to nothing but rubble, and get a face full of dirt.

“Goddamnit,” Tony grouches, coughing as the dust around him begins to settle. The suit’s tracker should clue the rest of the team as to where he is, so he doesn’t feel worry until he shakily gets to his feet and feels himself _sway_ on his feet, hands seeking purchase on a tree stump as he shakes his head to clear the cloudiness of his vision.

The forest by then, is nothing more than a wasteland of broken trees that resembles toothpicks that had been snapped in half. Tony doesn’t think he’s affected by whatever chemical had managed to permeate the suit, something he is genuinely excited and interested in studying if only to ensure his suite isn’t affected by it anymore in the future. A blurry glance at his watch tells him that help to secure the suit is on the way. He doesn't think it's safe to board the contaminated thing into the quinjet, let alone be touched by even gloved hands. Tony thinks that the reason the ringing in his ears remains loud, the reason the jets of the quinjet hovering above him still sounds distant, or the fact that he barely registers what his teammates are saying when he sees Steve and Sam approach him from across the way, running and flying to pick him off the ground and board the quinjet, is simply because Tony doesn’t remember when he had actually slept.

Not since his conversation with Strange.

Not since his realization at just what Bucky’s actions and words truly means.

And not since Steve.

That had been about six days ago.

Tony realizes that he should have quit his agreement to stay on-site for two weeks the moment he had gotten the news. That fuck the paperwork, the red tape, and the drama that may come with it, he should have simply gone home and should have left it at that.

But Tony doesn’t leave if only because his stubborn pride – possibly the only thing he had left, at this point – wouldn’t _allow_ him. Quitting had felt like cheating, like he’s allowing his personal predicament and _feelings_ , that he’s actually _admitting_ to said _feelings_. And Tony doesn’t want to _do_ just that, because had he left and turned his back on the entire shit storm that spell had caused, it would feel like acknowledgment to Bucky's words, to the finality of Steve's goodbye, and a full on nod to just how affected he is deep down by all of it.

(You’re still trying to wrap your head around what Steve had told you.)

So Tony had stayed, and now, as Steve hauls him into the quinjet and sets him down on a chair, as Bruce grabs him by the face and shines a light against his pupils, he finds himself wishing, with every fiber of his being, that he had been home, that he had walked away, that he had just given up all together, pride and ego and consequences be damned.

“I’m fine,” Tony says, batting Bruce’s hands away, and turning his face to the side, feeling irritation settle over like a blanket over his head. “My suit isn’t, if that helps.”

“Tony, you just –“

“ _I know_.” Tony snaps, silencing the concern and look of panic on Steve’s face. The harshness of the smack-down _almost_ makes Steve recoil and if anything, Tony feels like a douchebag for it. He flinches a bit when he shifts, one hand coming up to his side where he knows will be bruising from the fall _and_ both blast impacts. “I know… just…”

Steve nods stiffly at his whispered words, understanding without prompting and _forces_ himself to turn around and check on the rest of the team.

Tony succumbs to a few more checks just to appease any raised eyebrows before Bruce gently squeezes his shoulder and kneels beside him, a look of warning in his eyes.  Tony already knows what’s coming next. “Tony, you are _exhausted_.” Bruce says, without malice. “When was the last time you even had a few _straight_ hours of sleep?”

Tony’s gaze tracks across the quinjet, where he sees the Winter Soldier sitting on a bench and staring right at him. The stare is enough to make a weak man crumble, and Tony almost does under the weight of it, and forcibly looks away. He knows exactly when had been the last time he had slept well. It had been in the apartment, a few days before the wedding, when he had woken up at noon in the warm and cool feel of Bucky’s arms around him.

“Yeah, well…” Tony mumbles and stares at his hands.

“If you need a prescription –“

“No.” Tony says, shutting that down a little  _too_ fast. “No pills.” Tony shakes his head, because that is a temptation he had managed to resist for _years_. Tony is aware of how easy he can succumb to substances, had been through enough substance abuse for as long as he can remember that he considers it a victory that his _only_ problem _now_ is his alcohol consumption. “No pills…”

“Well, you better have a plan. Because I don’t think anyone can stop Steve from benching you for x-amount of time. We should get an x-ray of your ribs when we land, get that taped properly, okay?” Bruce says, without judgment and plenty of understanding that Tony feels grateful for.

Tony glances around the jet, finds Steve talking to Wanda and Vision. That is when it hits him. And Tony thinks he must be so desperate if he’s actually entertaining the idea of asking for Wanda’s help to send him to a blissful and oblivious dreamless sleep for a good straight eight hours.

(Because you see, it’s not the people walking around you that you’re afraid of, the conscious, the living, the breathing.

It is the people you see when you close your eyes that you fear, people who looks at you accusingly for their deaths, their suffering, your mistakes, those stares gradually accumulating in numbers throughout the years. It is the look of mortification and _fear_ your parents faces wore that night, grainy and pixelated because that’s how you remember that time.  It is the smell of lilies from the funeral that had followed after, and waking up at the hospital when you had overdosed and watched your best friend fall to utter pieces from _relief_. It is the goodbye that had not formed on your lips, not because you didn’t want to, but because you _couldn’t_ , when you had to put Jarvis to the ground one autumn afternoon.

It is the feeling of hands on you, of grains of sand cutting against and _into_ your knees when _they_ force you down, when those hands had yanked you back, had forced you to bend to their will when your chest had been wide open and _aching_. It is the feeling of being _forced_ under water, of being _beaten_ and then allowed _rest_. It is the feeling of Yinsen’s hands, old and wrinkly but so _steady_ as he tries to save you, and later, had strapped the weight of metal and leather on you. You should have known better. You should have _seen_ how that salutation had been his _goodbye_.

It is the feeling _family_ wrapping their fingers around your heart, and yanking that arc reactor out. Family that you had trusted, had worked with, had _believed_ in only to realize that Obie had never cared, not from the start, never at all.

It is the sight of the looming threat in the skies beyond the stratosphere, billions of light years away, in the plunging depths of space, monsters and beings and things so powerful, that what chance do Earth’s Mightiest Heroes even have against a force like _that_?

It is the feeling of delicate and beautifully soft fingers slipping from your grip and falling into a burning pit below, of her screams echoing in your ear like a distant siren that had never fully left you, because you couldn’t save her in that moment. You thought you lost Pepper in that moment.

You lost her anyway…

It is the fear of not doing enough, of losing Steve – oh, god, _Steve,_  bloody and staring unseeingly at the stars above, _oh god_ …

It is the realization that your creation stems from bad code and a power that you cannot even begin to control, that Ultron is every bit the bad part of you, the thing you hate the most, just like how every bit of JARVIS are the small and good things you had somewhere tucked into the corners of your very mangled heart.

It is the deaths that come after that, the blame and collateral damage that never steps once a battle concludes, but only continues to mount after said battle.

It is the accusation that you had torn the team apart.

It is the sight of War Machine falling, always, _always_ , falling, and hitting the ground with a thud that is so deafening, and then remaining so deathly still.

It is the sound of _yes_ to your _did you know_.

It is the _hurt_ that had followed after, the rage that fueled you, and the feeling of the shield coming down on whatever soft parts you had offered willingly to the man behind that shield.

It is the sight of monsters coming down from the skies, the feeling of a fist encased in a gold gauntlet against the side of your head, the sound of the metal _shattering_ under that fist and you falling to the ground and seeing _all that_ all over again and you are not even asleep, but awake, as the world around you _burns_ and _burns_ and **_burns_**.

And even after you survive that, it is the distance between you and Steve, the great Grand Canyon that stands between you and everything you can’t forgive, and everything Steve’s regret just sitting like a pile of ash as tall as the Alps, and neither of you able to move, imprisoned by your own betrayal and your own guilt.

It is the team that you had called home, respectful but quieter, more distant, not exactly family because well, they're not Pepper. They're not Rhodey. And they never will be.

You’re not afraid of being awake. You’ve never been.

You’re more afraid of being asleep.)

“Don’t worry, big guy, I’ve got an idea.” Tony reassures Bruce, who gives him a pensive look but says nothing further.

The idea doesn’t leave Tony, even after they land back in the compound and he is checked over at medical, his ribs taped and painkillers given that he tosses into the trash the moment he leaves and makes a beeline for workspace he’d been assigned to.

The idea turns to an action when Tony calls Wanda, asks her if he could talk to her for a few minutes, and when she comes, curious and eyebrows knitting the tiniest bit, the idea begins to sound _so stupid_ the moment the request leaves Tony’s mouth. There is no intelligent way to ask your teammate to get into your head and put you sleep for a few hours because you _can’t_.

“Does Steve know about this?” Wanda asks, looking _so_ taken aback and completely off-guard.

“No.” Tony says, looking at his hands. “So can you? I’m not very happy about this but I’m a little desperate. Of course, if you’re not comfortable then –“

“No, Tony, it’s not – I’m just – you know, I am a little surprised.” Wanda says, rubbing her hands together. She had changed from her mission gear to old torn denims and a t-shirt, and even now, it always catches Tony off-guard how _young_ she really is. “You never ask for anything. From the team.”

“And the team is doing superbly.” Tony punctuates.

Wanda looks like she wants to say something more, like she wants to _correct_ that statement; she doesn't, and instead, her shoulder slumps with an invisible weight, the motion so small that if one doesn't know where to look, it would go unnoticed. She casts a wary look around the lab and the cot behind Tony’s chair. “Is that where you plan to sleep?”

“It’s a lot more comfortable than it looks.” Tony murmurs; he frankly doesn’t care where he sleeps.

‘All right…” Wanda nods and sucks in slow measuring breath. “I know how much you despise magic. I can believe your desperation if you’re asking _me_ for help.”

Tony huffs a small mirthless laugh. “Nothing against you, kiddo. I’ve only ever wanted you to be happy and to have a shot at a decent life, in whatever shape or form, as long as it's something you chose for yourself. Believe it, don’t believe it,” Tony stands and pads to the cot, sitting himself down carefully with a bit of a flinch as he presses fingers to his bruised side. “Do what you want with it. Me hoping and wanting that for _you_ hasn’t changed.”

Wanda watches as he lies down on his back, taking a seat by the edge of the cot, something shy lingering around the corners of her expression. “Ready?” She asks, and Tony nods.

Wanda’s fingertips alight with little tendrils of red, and Tony can feel the discomfort of allowing someone into his head like a punch to the gut. He quickly shuts his eyes, seizing up involuntarily, before the calmness that feels like a warm and toasty blanket in the middle of a cold winter settles around him. The effect is immediate, and something he had not expected to kick in so fast. When he opens his eyes, he sees Wanda looking down at him with all the color gone from her face and her eyes impossibly _wide_.

Ah, well, of course. It’s human nature to feel a little tender in their hearts for cripples and bastards and broken things.

“Whatever you saw, whatever you _know_ , can you promise me you’ll keep it to yourself?” Tony asks, reaching out to wrap fingers around trembling fingers.

Wanda nods shakily, looking a little panicked, a little hysteric, and a little _raw_.

Tony doesn’t believe she’ll keep her promise, but what the hell, team trust and all that shit, right? If worst comes to worst, there are parts of the contract that he can use to safeguard himself and ensure that no one tattles or breaches privacy.

When Tony closes his eyes again, he thinks the gamble is worth the quiet and dreamless sleep that follows.

\--

When Tony wakes up, he is bundled like a burrito under a blanket that he doesn't remember keeping around and his pillow is damp, his lips and throat dry and his limbs almost boneless. He peels his eyes open to the wall of his lab, and finds that the pillow smells like mildew from dried drool and that he feels directionless and severely disoriented. When he sits up, Tony feels his joints _ache_ , a reminder of his age and just what he puts his body through on a regular basis.

When he checks the date and time, he realizes that eight hours hadn’t been enough, because he had been asleep for almost twenty eight. He thinks it’s probably a blessing when Friday tells him that he had gotten up in between to use the bathroom, only to go back to sleep right after and without trouble.

Tony doesn’t remember dreaming.

He doesn’t remember even having _thoughts_.

Denying the fact that he feels infinitely better after a day’s worth of sleep would be a lie too.

Tony rolls to his feet and putters to the connecting bathroom in a daze, blinking sleep out of his eyes as he urinates and then promptly decides to step under the warm spray. The binding around his ribs ends up in a heap on the floor, along with the rest of his clothes and really, he should have asked Wanda earlier.

This had to be the best decision he’s ever made and invested on himself in what feels like _years._

He doesn’t remember feeling this _human_ in years either, even after he pats himself dry, drapes the towel around his waist and stares at the slightly less hollowed reflection looking back at him from the mirror. His eyes aren’t bloodshot, even if the puffiness around it is present. Tony honestly thinks he looks pretty good, if one can ignore the slightly sharper jut of his collarbones, the leaner frame and the blooming bruise on his entire left side from their last HYDRA mission. He knows he's far from feeling like a hundred percent, that he can't possibly fight off years worth of exhaustion with just over a day's worth of sleep.

But he'll celebrate small victories and count this as one.

Tony thinks he can use a few more _months_  of sleep if he attempts honesty, but decides against it when he realizes that Steve and Bruce and quite possibly the team, would be having aneurysm if he doesn’t at least show his face and make his presence known. He isn’t sure who else would be around the common areas at one in the morning. He isn’t even sure if anyone is in the compound or if they’re on a mission or even back at their respective apartments.

Tony dresses up anyway, and heads to the common room where he sees the last thing he can even think of imagining.

On the sixty-two inch screen, the Food Network channel is on and replaying an episode of Giada De Laurentiis making chicken soup.  And right there with a spread of spices and empty bowls and wielding a knife is Bucky, frozen midway to chopping a sprig of herbs, eyes wide and _staring_. Tony finds himself blinking a little drowsily at the image in front of him, Bucky in casual denims and a t-shirt, an apron around his waist, a disposable rubber glove over his metal hand, hair back in a ponytail.

“Food Network?” Tony croaks and his voice sounds like sandpaper. It makes him reach up in mild surprise to rub his throat with his fingers as he clears it and tries to work around the dryness.

Sure enough, rushed footsteps echo and there is Steve, also in denims, t-shirt and sneakers, looking wild and visibly _deflating_ the moment his gaze settles on Tony.

“Oh thank goodness.” He says, and takes steps towards Tony only to freeze an arm’s length away, like he’s realizing that he no longer has the right to stand so close, all logic and _reality_ kicking Steve in the face. Tony watches how tension lines the length of his arms, watches how Steve seems to shake with the effort to fight the _need_ to placate his worry and still visible panic by reaching out for him. Steve’s hands balls into fists, tight and white knuckled before he releases them slowly. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a billion dollars.” Tony says, and finds that it isn’t a total lie. “Relax, big guy. Just catching up on some shut eye, is all. How’s the team?” He says, making small conversation, steering their conversation to what is their usual team dynamics now, keeping it professional when he knows that Steve is feeling anything _but_.

“They’ve retired for the evening.” Bucky answers when Steve doesn’t.

“And you’re both still here because…?” Tony is opening the fridge and reaches out for the beer but pauses and changes direction to the bottle of water instead. The seal twists off easily in his hand and he takes a long swig from the bottle, feeling the instant relief in his throat.

“Why wouldn’t we be? You weren’t waking up to much, not fully anyway. I thought – _we_ thought…” Steve correcting himself and palpable grief on his face almost crumbles what had been Tony’s healthy resolve to take a step back and put distance between them.

The sound of the knife shuffling against leaves and the chopping board makes Tony blink and look away, just as Steve clears his throat and casts a look at Bucky, whose eyes are fixed on the giant screen.

“Go home, Steve. Get some rest. I’m fine.” Tony says and offers a small shaky smile that doesn’t feel completely falsified. “Scout’s promise. The sleep helped.”

The hesitance is obvious but Steve nods because he _must_ , and takes a step back towards the common room entrance, away from the open kitchen. “You all right here, Buck?” Bucky doesn’t answer but nods minutely, focusing on the chopping at hand. “All right then…”

Tony watches Steve _remove_ himself from the room, like he does when Tony finishes playing his role as a good teammate. He watches as Steve rounds the corner, fists still tight against his sides but doesn’t look back because this is what they had decided on. Steve had said his goodbye, had made his intentions clear no matter how much it hurts. Steve knows his boundaries just as much as Tony knows his limits, no matter what the world perceives.

(It’s finally over, even though it’s been over for so, so long.)

And Tony keeps his big boy pants on and addresses the elephant in the room.

He pulls a stool out from under the counter, props himself up and rests an elbow against the counter, chin propped on a palm and watches as Bucky stirs the herbs into the open pot. Bucky’s movements are slow and for the longest time, neither of them say anything to each other, even as the advertisements roll on the screen and a different show starts playing. Tony watches Bucky keep a close eye on the slowly simmering pot, the silence that had felt stiff at the start seguing into something more familiar. And for a brief moment, when Tony closes his eyes as he inhales the smell of fresh herbs and cooking broth, he thinks they’re back at the apartment, able to stand apart from each other, but unable to put more distance willingly.

Except this time, they’re both where they are and there are no spells involved.

(Or so you think.)

“Two weeks with me and you never cooked.” Tony says, opening his eyes and catching Bucky shifting his gaze to elsewhere.

“Situation was difficult as it was without me asserting things I want to do in your space.” Bucky answers, with a shrug. “Didn’t want to cause more trouble.”

Tony _almost_ reacts to it. Instead, he asks, “So this is a thing you do? Cooking?"

“Nadia suggests that I attempt to discover hobbies.” Bucky says, nose wrinkling at the words as he turns the heat off, but doesn't pause in his stirring. Tony knows exactly who Nadia is; the appointed counselor and therapist to the Winter Soldier is a retired Interpol agent with excessive background and expertise in PTSD management that the fact that she had been able to _convince_ Bucky to _consider_ a hobby is ground breaking. Tony admits that she had done a splendid job in the post de-programming treatment Bucky had gone through in Wakanda; the progress clearly hasn't stopped. “Vision suggested cooking. So…”

Tony _hums_ , and feels amusement tug around the edges of his neutral expression. “So why soup?” He asks instead and watches as Bucky provides no verbal answer and merely shrugs. Bucky turns around to open up a cabinet, taking out a bowl and a soup spoon. “Doesn’t look so bad.”

“Look Stark –“

“Did you mean it?” Tony counters, tilting his head, addressing said elephant. “All of it? Back then?”

Bucky pauses, lips parting to respond but decides against it when he sighs. “Does it matter?” He asks instead, quiet, too soft. Defeated.

Tony knows the answer is thick at the tip of Bucky’s tongue, knows by the way the tension lines his shoulder how it matters so much. Tony offers no appeasing words, no declarations, explanation or even justification as to why he wants to know. It shouldn’t matter in the long run, just like how his relationship with Steve shouldn’t matter to the team, or Wanda.  But Tony knows – oh how he _knows –_ that at some point, unresolved issues always exacerbates to something uglier.

(You’ve always known.)

“It does.” Tony admits, and expects to feel blades in his throat at the admission of vulnerability.

He doesn’t expect a tinge of relief instead, or the clearly stunned and barely concealed shock on Bucky's face that follows. He doesn’t expect the wordless response of having a bowl of steaming chicken soup placed in front of him, an answer to his earlier question as to exactly what the soup is for.

Bucky doesn’t serve anything for himself.

Something shifts then as Tony picks up the spoon and stirs the content of his bowl, steam wafting up. The weight of Bucky’s watchful gaze doesn’t shift, even after Tony takes the first careful taste of the warm broth and feels it settle comfortably in his stomach, the flavors rich and warm and almost a perfect illusion of something _homey_.

And when Tony tells Bucky that it’s really good soup, when the smile slowly _softens_ the hard lines and edges of Bucky’s face and changes him completely, Tony cannot deny the slight flutter in his chest that feels more organic and less like forced magic.

This time, Tony finds that he doesn’t mind the feeling as much as he should have.

(The smile, you think, is _almost_ worth your discomfort.)

  
FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel in progress.
> 
> Sequel is going to be a shitty attempt at comedy. If you're familiar with my crappy attempt at a chickflick IronPanther fic ~~that I seriously need to bloodywell wrapupomgfbhjdf~~ , then you know what tone to expect. Sequel will 90% focus on slice of life themes and quite possibly more Bucky than Tony. 
> 
> LA LA LA SO SORRY STEVE BUT I STILL LOVE YOU SO MUCH T____T 
> 
> OKAY BAI THANK YOU FOR READINGSSSSS~!

**Author's Note:**

> Why am I doing this? Like Why?


End file.
